-VI  B  R.ARY 

OF   THL 

U  N  1  VLRS  1TY 
OF    ILLINOIS 

691.73 
£88 


o 
cop-  5. 


The  person  charging  this  material  is  re- 
sponsible for  its  return  to  the  library  from 
which  it  was  withdrawn  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

Theft,    mutilation,    and    underlining    of    book*    are    reasons 
for    disciplinary    action    and    may    result    in    dismissal    from 
the  University. 
To  renew  call  Telephone  Center,  333-8400 

UNIVERSITY    OF    ILLINOIS    LIBRARY    AT    URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


|gp) 


OCT14 

: 
FEB  05  igfa 

*P»  1  8  Kfl 

MAR  1  2  lis4 
JUN  0  6  19 

OCT  1  i  'j95 
NOV  1  0  19!  5 

SEP  3  0  i997 

SEP  0  3  w 

JUL  0?  20(1 


L161— O-1096 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 
BY 

I.  A.  BUNIN 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 
1923 


Copyright,  1923,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


MINTED  IK  THE   UNITED  STATES  OT  AMERICA 


<?1l.13 
B?%. 

M 

CBJJi 


The  Translation  of  these  Stories  was  made  by 
D.  H.  LAWRENCE 
S.  S.  KOTELIANSKY 
LEONARD  WOOLF 


CONTENTS 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO    3 

GENTLE  BREATHING 63 

KASIMIR  STANISLAVOVITCH     .     .     .     .81 
SON 105 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN 
FRANCISCO 

"  Woe  to  thee,  Babylon,  that  mighty  city!  " 

APOCALYPSE. 

THE  gentleman  from  San  Francisco — nobody 
either  in  Capri  or  Naples  ever  remembered 
his  name — was  setting  out  with  his  wife  and 
daughter  for  the  Old  World,  to  spend  there 
two  years  of  pleasure. 

He  was  fully  convinced  of  his  right  to  rest, 
to  enjoy  long  and  comfortable  travels,  and  so 
forth.  Because,  in  the  first  place  he  was  rich, 
and  in  the  second  place,  notwithstanding  his 
fifty-eight  years,  he  was  just  starting  to  live. 
Up  to  the  present  he  had  not  lived,  but  only 
existed ;  quite  well,  it  is  true,  yet  with  all  his 
hopes  on  the  future.  He  had  worked  inces- 


The  Gentleman  From 


santly — and  the  Chinamen  whom  he  employed 
by  the  thousand  in  his  factories  knew  what 
that  meant.  Now  at  last  he  realized  that  a 
great  deal  had  been  accomplished,  and  that  he 
had  almost  reached  the  level  of  those  whom 
he  had  taken  as  his  ideals,  so  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  pause  for  a  breathing  space.  Men  of 
his  class  usually  began  their  enjoyments  with 
a  trip  to  Europe,  India,  Egypt.  He  decided 
to  do  the  same.  He  wished  naturally  to  re- 
ward himself  in  the  first  place  for  all  his  years 
of  toil,  but  he  was  quite  glad  that  his  wife  and 
daughter  should  also  share  in  his  pleasures. 
True,  his  wife  was  not  distinguished  by  any 
marked  susceptibilities,  but  then  elderly 
American  women  are  all  passionate  travellers. 
As  for  his  daughter,  a  girl  no  longer  young 
and  somewhat  delicate,  travel  was  really 
necessary  for  her:  apart  from  the  question  of 
health,  do  not  happy  meetings  often  take  place 
in  the  course  of  travel?  One  may  find  one's 

4 


San  Francisco 


self  sitting  next  to  a  multimillionaire  at  table, 
or  examining  frescoes  side  by  side  with  him. 

The  itinerary  planned  by  the  Gentleman  of 
San  Francisco  was  extensive.  In  December 
and  January  he  hoped  to  enjoy  the  sun  of 
southern  Italy,  the  monuments  of  antiquity, 
the  tarantella,  the  serenades  of  vagrant  min- 
strels, and,  finally,  that  which  men  of  his  age 
are  most  susceptible  to,  the  love  of  quite  young 
Neapolitan  girls,  even  when  the  love  is  not 
altogether  disinterestedly  given.  Carnival  he 
thought  of  spending  in  Nice,  in  Monte  Carlo, 
where  at  that  season  gathers  the  most  select 
society,  the  precise  society  on  which  depend 
all  the  blessings  of  civilization — the  fashion 
in  evening  dress,  the  stability  of  thrones,  the 
declaration  of  wars,  the  prosperity  of  hotels; 
where  some  devote  themselves  passionately  to 
automobile  and  boat  races,  others  to  roulette, 
others  to  what  is  called  flirtation,  and  others  to 
the  shooting  of  pigeons  which  beautifully  soar 

5 


The  Gentleman  From 


from  their  traps  over  emerald  lawns,  against 
a  background  of  forget-me-not  sea,  instantly 
to  fall,  hitting  the  ground  in  little  white  heaps. 
The  beginning  of  March  he  wished  to  devote 
to  Florence,  Passion  Week  in  Rome,  to  hear 
the  music  of  the  Miserere;  his  plans  also 
included  Venice,  Paris,  bull-fights  in  Seville, 
bathing  in  the  British  Isles;  then  Athens, 
Constantinople,  Egypt,  even  Japan  .  .  .  cer- 
tainly on  his  way  home.  .  .  .  And  everything 
at  the  outset  went  splendidly. 

It  was  the  end  of  November.  Practically 
all  the  way  to  Gibraltar  the  voyage  passed  in 
icy  darkness,  varied  by  storms  of  wet  snow. 
Yet  the  ship  travelled  well,  even  without 
much  rolling.  The  passengers  on  board  were 
many,  and  all  people  of  some  importance. 
The  boat,  the  famous  Atlantis,  resembled  a 
most  expensive  European  hotel  with  all  mod- 
ern equipments:  a  night  refreshment  bar, 
Turkish  baths,  a  newspaper  printed  on  board; 

6 


San  Francisco 


so  that  the  days  aboard  the  liner  passed  in  the 
most  select  manner.  The  passengers  rose 
early,  to  the  sound  of  bugles  sounding  shrilly 
through  the  corridors  in  that  grey  twilit  hour, 
when  day  was  breaking  slowly  and  sullenly 
over  the  grey-green,  watery  desert,  which 
rolled  heavily  in  the  fog.  Clad  in  their  flannel 
pyjamas,  the  gentlemen  took  coffee,  chocolate, 
or  cocoa,  then  seated  themselves  in  marble 
baths,  did  exercises,  thereby  whetting  their 
appetite  and  their  sense  of  well-being,  made 
their  toilet  for  the  day,  and  proceeded  to 
breakfast.  Till  eleven  o'clock  they  were  sup- 
posed to  stroll  cheerfully  on  deck,  breathing 
the  cold  freshness  of  the  ocean ;  or  they  played 
table-tennis  or  other  games,  that  they  might 
have  an  appetite  for  their  eleven  o'clock  re- 
freshment of  sandwiches  and  bouillon;  after 
which  they  read  their  newspaper  with  pleas- 
ure, and  calmly  awaited  luncheon — which  was 
a  still  more  varied  and  nourishing  meal  than 

7 


The  Gentleman  From 


breakfast.  The  two  hours  which  followed 
luncheon  were  devoted  to  rest.  All  the  decks 
were  crowded  with  lounge  chairs  on  which 
lay  passengers  wrapped  in  plaids,  looking  at 
the  mist-heavy  sky  or  the  foamy  hillocks 
which  flashed  behind  the  bows,  and  dozing 
sweetly.  Till  five  o'clock,  when,  refreshed 
and  lively,  they  were  treated  to  strong,  fra- 
grant tea  and  sweet  cakes.  At  seven  bugle- 
calls  announced  a  dinner  of  nine  courses.  And 
now  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  rub- 
bing his  hands  in  a  rising  flush  of  vital  forces, 
hastened  to  his  state  cabin  to  dress. 

In  the  evening,  the  tiers  of  the  Atlantis 
yawned  in  the  darkness  as  with  innumerable 
fiery  eyes,  and  a  multitude  of  servants  in  the 
kitchens,  sculleries,  wine-cellars,  worked  with 
a  special  frenzy.  The  ocean  heaving  beyond 
was  terrible,  but  no  one  thought  of  it,  firmly 
believing  in  the  captain's  power  over  it.  The 
captain  was  a  ginger-haired  man  of  monstrous 

8 


San  Francisco 


size  and  weight,  apparently  always  torpid, 
who  looked  in  his  uniform  with  broad  gold 
stripes  very  like  a  huge  idol,  and  who  rarely 
emerged  from  his  mysterious  chambers  to 
show  himself  to  the  passengers.  Every  minute 
the  siren  howled  from  the  bows  with  hellish 
moroseness,  and  screamed  with  fury,  but  few 
diners  heard  it — it  was  drowned  by  the  sounds 
of  an  excellent  string  band,  exquisitely  and 
untiringly  playing  in  the  huge  two-tiered  hall 
that  was  decorated  with  marble  and  covered 
with  velvet  carpets,  flooded  with  feasts  of 
light  from  crystal  chandeliers  and  gilded 
girandoles,  and  crowded  with  ladies  in  bare 
shoulders  and  jewels,  with  men  in  dinner- 
jackets,  elegant  waiters  and  respectful  maitres 
d' hotel,  one  of  whom,  he  who  took  the  wine- 
orders  only,  wore  a  chain  round  his  neck  like 
a  lord  mayor.  Dinner-jacket  and  perfect  linen 
made  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  look 
much  younger.  Dry,  of  small  stature,  badly 

9 


The  Gentleman  From 


built  but  strongly  made,  polished  to  a  glow 
and  in  due  measure  animated,  he  sat  in  the 
golden-pearly  radiance  of  this  palace,  with  a 
bottle  of  amber  Johannisberg  at  his  hand,  and 
glasses,  large  and  small,  of  delicate  crystal, 
and  a  curly  bunch  of  fresh  hyacinths.  There 
was  something  Mongolian  in  his  yellowish 
face  with  its  trimmed  silvery  moustache,  large 
teeth  blazing  with  gold,  and  strong  bald  head 
blazing  like  old  ivory.  Richly  dressed,  but  in 
keeping  with  her  age,  sat  his  wife,  a  big, 
broad,  quiet  woman.  Intricately,  but  lightly 
and  transparently  dressed,  with  an  innocent 
immodesty,  sat  his  daughter,  tall,  slim,  her 
magnificent  hair  splendidly  done,  her  breath 
fragrant  with  violet  cachous,  and  the  tenderest 
little  rosy  moles  showing  near  her  lip  and  be- 
between  her  bare,  slightly  powdered  shoulder- 
blades.  The  dinner  lasted  two  whole  hours, 
to  be  followed  by  dancing  in  the  ball-room, 
whence  the  men,  including,  of  course,  the 

10 


San  Francisco 


Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  proceeded  to 
the  bar ;  there,  with  their  feet  cocked  up  on  the 
tables,  they  settled  the  destinies  of  nations 
in  the  course  of  their  political  and  stock- 
exchange  conversations,  smoking  meanwhile 
Havana  cigars  and  drinking  liqueurs  till  they 
were  crimson  in  the  face,  waited  on  all  the 
while  by  negroes  in  red  jackets  with  eyes  like 
peeled,  hard-boiled  eggs.  Outside,  the  ocean 
heaved  in  black  mountains ;  the  snow-storm 
jhissed  furiously  in  the  clogged  cordage;  the 
jsteamer  trembled  in  every  fibre  as  she  sur- 
mounted these  watery  hills  and  struggled  with 
the  storm,  ploughing  through  the  moving 
masses  which  every  now  and  then  reared  in 
front  of  her,  foam-crested.  The  siren,  choked 
by  the  fog,  groaned  in  mortal  anguish.  The 
watchmen  in  the  look-out  towers  froze  with 
cold,  and  went  mad  with  their  superhuman 
straining  of  attention.  As  the  gloomy  and 
sultry  depths  of  the  inferno,  as  the  ninth  circle, 

ii 


The  Gentleman  From 


was  the  submerged  womb  of  the  steamer, 
where  gigantic  furnaces  roared  and  dully 
giggled,  devouring  with  their  red-hot  maws 
mountains  of  coal  cast  hoarsely  in  by  men 
naked  to  the  waist,  bathed  in  their  own  cor- 
rosive dirty  sweat,  and  lurid  with  the  purple- 
red  reflection  of  flame.  But  in  the  refreshment 
bar  men  jauntily  put  their  feet  up  on  the 
tables,  showing  their  patent-leather  pumps, 
and  sipped  cognac  or  other  liqueurs,  and 
swam  in  waves  of  fragrant  smoke  as  they  chat- 
ted in  well-bred  manner.  In  the  dancing  hall 
light  and  warmth  and  joy  were  poured  over 
everything;  couples  turned  in  the  waltz  or 
writhed  in  the  tango,  while  the  music  insist- 
ently, shamelessly,  delightfully,  with  sadness 
entreated  for  one,  only  one  thing,  one  and  the 
same  thing  all  the  time.  Amongst  this  re- 
splendent crowd  was  an  ambassador,  a  little 
dry,  modest  old  man;  a  great  millionaire, 
clean-shaven,  tall,  of  an  indefinite  age,  looking 

12 


San  Francisco 


like  a  prelate  in  his  old-fashioned  dress-coat; 
also  a  famous  Spanish  author,  and  an  inter- 
national beauty  already  the  least  bit  faded,  of 
unenviable  reputation;  finally  an  exquisite 
loving  couple,  whom  everybody  watched  curi- 
ously because  of  their  unconcealed  happiness: 
he  danced  only  with  her,  and  sang,  with  great 
skill,  only  to  her  accompaniment,  and  every- 
thing about  them  seemed  so  charming! — and 
only  the  captain  knew  that  this  couple  had 
been  engaged  by  the  steamship  company  to 
play  at  love  for  a  good  salary,  and  that  they 
had  been  sailing  for  a  long  time,  now  on  one 
liner,  now  on  another. 

At  Gibraltar  the  sun  gladdened  them  all: 
it  was  like  early  spring.  A  new  passenger 
appeared  on  board,  arousing  general  interest. 
He  was  a  hereditary  prince  of  a  certain  Asiatic 
state,  travelling  incognito :  a  small  man,  as  if 
all  made  of  wood,  though  his  movements  were 
alert;  broad-faced,  in  gold-rimmed  glasses,  a 

13 


The  Gentleman  From 


little  unpleasant  because  of  his  large  black 
moustache  which  was  sparse  and  transparent 
like  that  of  a  corpse ;  but  on  the  whole  inoffen- 
sive, simple,  modest.  In  the  Mediterranean 
they  met  once  more  the  breath  of  winter. 
Waves,  large  and  florid  as  the  tail  of  a  pea- 
cock, waves  with  snow-white  crests  heaved 
under  the  impulse  of  the  tramontane  wind, 
and  came  merrily,  madly  rushing  towards  the 
ship,  in  the  bright  lustre  of  a  perfectly  clear 
sky.  The  next  day  the  sky  began  to  pale,  the 
horizon  grew  dim,  land  was  approaching: 
Ischia,  Capri  could  be  seen  through  the 
glasses,  then  Naples  herself,  looking  like 
pieces  of  sugar  strewn  at  the  foot  of  some 
dove-coloured  mass;  whilst  beyond,  vague 
and  deadly  white  with  snow,  a  range  of 
distant  mountains.  The  decks  were  crowded. 
Many  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  putting 
on  light  fur-trimmed  coats.  Noiseless  Chi- 
nese servant  boys,  bandy-legged,  with  pitch- 

14 


San  Francisco 


black  plaits  hanging  down  to  their  heels, 
and  with  girlish  thick  eyebrows,  unob- 
trusively came  and  went,  carrying  up  the 
stairways  plaids,  canes,  valises,  hand-bags  of 
crocodile  leather,  and  never  speaking  above  a 
whisper.  The  daughter  of  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  stood  side  by  side  with 
the  prince,  who,  by  a  happy  circumstance,  had 
been  introduced  to  her  the  previous  evening. 
She  had  the  air  of  one  looking  fixedly  into  the 
distance  towards  something  which  he  was 
pointing  out  to  her,  and  which  he  was  explain- 
ing hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice.  Owing  to  his 
size,  he  looked  amongst  the  rest  like  a  boy. 
Altogether  he  was  not  handsome,  rather  queer, 
with  his  spectacles,  bowler  hat,  and  English 
coat,  and  then  the  hair  of  his  sparse  moustache 
just  like  horse-hair,  and  the  swarthy,  thin  skin 
of  his  face  seeming  stretched  over  his  features 
and  slightly  varnished.  But  the  girl  listened 
to  him,  and  was  so  excited  that  she  did  not 

15 


The  Gentleman  From 


know  what  he  was  saying.  Her  heart  beat 
with  incomprehensible  rapture  because  of 
him,  because  he  was  standing  next  to  her  and 
talking  to  her,  to  her  alone.  Everything, 
everything  about  him  was  so  unusual — his  dry 
hands,  his  clean  skin  under  which  flowed 
ancient,  royal  blood,  even  his  plain,  but  some- 
how particularly  tidy  European  dress;  every- 
thing was  invested  with  an  indefinable  glam- 
our, with  all  that  was  calculated  to  enthrall 
a  young  woman.  The  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco,  wearing  for  his  part  a  silk  hat  and 
grey  spats  over  patent-leather  shoes,  kept  eye- 
ing the  famous  beauty  who  stood  near  him, 
a  tall,  wonderful  figure,  blonde,  with  her  eyes 
painted  according  to  the  latest  Parisian  fash- 
ion, holding  on  a  silver  chain  a  tiny,  cringing, 
hairless  little  dog,  to  which  she  was  addressing 
herself  all  the  time.  And  the  daughter,  feel- 
ing some  vague  embarrassment,  tried  not  to 
notice  her  father. 

it 


San  Francisco 


Like  all  Americans,  he  was  very  liberal  with 
his  money  when  travelling.  And  like  all  of 
them,  he  believed  in  the  full  sincerity  and 
good-will  of  those  who  brought  his  food  and 
drinks,  served  him  from  morn  till  night,  an- 
ticipated his  smallest  desire,  watched  over  his 
cleanliness  and  rest,  carried  his  things,  called 
the  porters,  conveyed  his  trunks  to  the  hotels. 
So  it  was  everywhere,  so  it  was  during  the 
voyage,  so  it  ought  to  be  in  Naples.  Naples 
grew  and  drew  nearer.  The  brass  band,  shin- 
ing with  the  brass  of  their  instruments,  had 
already  assembled  on  deck.  Suddenly  they 
deafened  everybody  with  the  strains  of  their 
triumphant  rag-time.  The  giant  captain  ap- 
peared in  full  uniform  on  the  bridge,  and  like 
a  benign  pagan  idol  waved  his  hands  to  the 
passengers  in  a  gesture  of  welcome.  And  to 
the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  as  well  as 
to  every  other  passenger,  it  seemed  as  if  for 
him  alone  was  thundered  forth  that  rag-time 

T  7 
*  / 


The  Gentleman  From 


march,  so  greatly  beloved  by  proud  America; 
for  him  alone  the  Captain's  hand  waved,  wel- 
coming him  on  his  safe  arrival.  Then,  when 
at  last  the  Atlantis  entered  port  and  veered 
her  many-tiered  mass  against  the  quay  that 
was  crowded  with  expectant  people,  when  the 
gangways  began  their  rattling — ah,  then  what 
a  lot  of  porters  and  their  assistants  in  caps 
with  golden  galloons,  what  a  lot  of  all  sorts 
of  commissionaires,  whistling  boys,  and  sturdy 
ragamuffins  with  packs  of  postcards  in  their 
hands  rushed  to  meet  the  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco  with  offers  of  their  services!  With 
what  amiable  contempt  he  grinned  at  those 
ragamuffins  as  he  walked  to  the  automobile  of 
the  very  same  hotel  at  which  the  prince  would 
probably  put  up,  and  calmly  muttered  between 
his  teeth,  now  in  English,  now  in  Italian— 
"Go  away!  Via!" 

Life  at  Naples  started  immediately  in  the 
set  routine.    Early  in  the  morning,  breakfast 

18 


San  Francisco 


in  a  gloomy  dining-room  with  a  draughty 
damp  wind  blowing  in  from  the  windows  that 
opened  on  to  a  little  stony  garden :  a  cloudy, 
unpromising  day,  and  a  crowd  of  guides  at 
the  doors  of  the  vestibule.  Then  the  first 
smiles  of  a  warm,  pinky-coloured  sun,  and 
from  the  high,  overhanging  balcony  a  view  of 
Vesuvius,  bathed  to  the  feet  in  the  radiant 
vapours  of  the  morning  sky,  while  beyond, 
over  the  silvery-pearly  ripple  of  the  bay,  the 
subtle  outline  of  Capri  upon  the  horizon! 
Then  nearer,  tiny  donkeys  running  in  two- 
wheeled  buggies  away  below  on  the  sticky  em- 
bankment, and  detachments  of  tiny  soldiers 
marching  off  with  cheerful  and  defiant  music. 
After  this  a  walk  to  the  taxi-stand,  and  a 
slow  drive  along  crowded,  narrow,  damp  cor- 
ridors of  streets,  between  high,  many-win- 
dowed houses.  Visits  to  deadly-clean  muse- 
ums, smoothly  and  pleasantly  lighted,  but 
monotonously,  as  if  from  the  reflection  of 

19 


The  Gentleman  From 


snow.  Or  visits  to  churches,  cold,  smelling  of 
wax,  and  always  the  same  thing:  a  majestic 
portal,  curtained  with  a  heavy  leather  curtain : 
inside,  a  huge  emptiness,  silence,  lonely  little 
flames  of  clustered  candles  ruddying  the 
depths  of  the  interior  on  some  altar  decorated 
with  ribbon :  a  forlorn  old  woman  amid  dark 
benches,  slippery  gravestones  under  one's  feet, 
and  somebody's  infallibly  famous  "Descent 
from  the  Cross."  Luncheon  at  one  o'clock  on 
San  Martino,  where  quite  a  number  of  the 
very  selectest  people  gather  about  midday,  and 
where  once  the  daughter  of  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  almost  became  ill  with 
joy,  fancying  she  saw  the  prince  sitting  in  the 
hall,  although  she  knew  from  the  newspapers 
that  he  had  gone  to  Rome  for  a  time.  At  five 
o'clock,  tea  in  the  hotel,  in  the  smart  salon 
where  it  was  so  warm,  with  the  deep  carpets 
and  blazing  fires.  After  which  the  thought 
of  dinner — and  again  the  powerful  command- 

20 


San  Francisco 


ing  voice  of  the  gong  heard  over  all  the  floors, 
and  again  strings  of  bare-shouldered  ladies 
rustling  with  their  silks  on  the  staircases  and 
reflecting  themselves  in  the  mirrors,  again  the 
wide-flung,  hospitable,  palatial  dining-room, 
the  red  jackets  of  musicians  on  the  platform, 
the  black  flock  of  waiters  around  the  maitre 
d' hotel,  who  with  extraordinary  skill  was 
pouring  out  a  thick,  roseate  soup  into  soup- 
plates.  The  dinners,  as  usual,  were  the  crown- 
ing event  of  the  day.  Every  one  dressed  as  if 
for  a  wedding,  and  so  abundant  were  the 
dishes,  the  wines,  the  table-waters,  sweetmeats, 
and  fruit,  that  at  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  the  chambermaids  would  take  to 
every  room  rubber  hot-water  bottles,  to  warm 
the  stomachs  of  those  who  had  dined. 

None  the  less,  December  of  that  year  was 
not  a  success  for  Naples.  The  porters  and 
secretaries  were  abashed  if  spoken  to  about 
the  weather,  only  guiltily  lifting  their  shoul- 

21 


The  Gentleman  From 


ders  and  murmuring  that  they  could  not  pos- 
sibly remember  such  a  season;  although  this 
was  not  the  first  year  they  had  had  to  make 
such  murmurs,  or  to  hint  that  "everywhere 
something  terrible  is  happening."  .  .  .  Un- 
precedented rains  and  storms  on  the  Riviera, 
snow  in  Athens,  Etna  also  piled  with  snow 
and  glowing  red  at  night;  tourists  fleeing 
from  the  cold  of  Palmero.  .  .  .  The  morning 
sun  daily  deceived  the  Neapolitans.  The  sky 
invariably  grew  grey  towards  midday,  and 
fine  rain  began  to  fall,  falling  thicker  and 
colder.  The  palms  of  the  hotel  approach 
glistened  like  wet  tin ;  the  city  seemed  pecu- 
liarly dirty  and  narrow,  the  museums  exces- 
sively dull ;  the  cigar-ends  of  the  fat  cab-men, 
whose  rubber  rain-capes  flapped  like  wings  in 
the  wind,  seemed  insufferably  stinking,  the 
energetic  cracking  of  whips  over  the  ears  of 
thin-necked  horses  sounded  altogether  false, 
and  the  clack  of  the  shoes  of  the  signorini  who 

22 


San  Francisco 


cleaned  the  tram-lines  quite  horrible,  while 
the  women,  walking  through  the  mud,  with 
their  black  heads  uncovered  in  the  rain, 
seemed  disgustingly  short-legged :  not  to  men- 
tion the  stench  and  dampness  of  foul  fish  which 
drifted  from  the  quay  where  the  sea  was  foam- 
ing. The  gentleman  and  lady  from  San  Fran- 
cisco began  to  bicker  in  the  mornings;  their 
daughter  went  about  pale  and  head-achey,  and 
then  roused  up  again,  went  into  raptures 
over  everything,  and  was  lovely,  charming. 
Charming  were  those  tender,  complicated 
feelings  which  had  been  aroused  in  her  by  the 
meeting  with  the  plain  little  man  in  whose 
veins  ran  such  special  blood.  But  after  all, 
does  it  matter  what  awakens  a  maiden  soul — 
whether  it  is  money,  fame,  or  noble  birth? 
.  .  .  Everybody  declared  that  in  Sorrento,  or 
in  Capri,  it  was  quite  different.  There  it  was 
warmer,  sunnier,  the  lemon-trees  were  in 
bloom,  the  morals  were  purer,  the  wine  un- 

23 


The  Gentleman  From 


adulterated.  So  behold,  the  family  from  San 
Francisco  decided  to  go  with  all  their  trunks 
to  Capri,  after  which  they  would  return  and 
settle  down  in  Sorrento :  when  they  had  seen 
Capri,  trodden  the  stones  where  stood  Tiber- 
ius' palaces,  visited  the  famous  caves  of  the 
Blue  Grotto,  and  listened  to  the  pipers  from 
Abruzzi,  who  wander  about  the  isle  during 
the  month  of  the  Nativity,  singing  the  praises 
of  the  Virgin. 

On  the  day  of  departure — a  very  memorable 
day  for  the  family  from  San  Francisco — the 
sun  did  not  come  out  even  in  the  morning. 
A  heavy  fog  hid  Vesuvius  to  the  base,  and 
came  greying  low  over  the  leaden  heave  of  the 
sea,  whose  waters  were  concealed  from  the 
eye  at  a  distance  of  half  a  mile.  Capri  was 
completely  invisible,  as  if  it  had  never  existed 
on  earth.  The  little  steamer  that  was  making 
for  the  island  tossed  so  violently  from  side  to 
side  that  the  family  from  San  Francisco  lay 

24 


San  Francisco 


like  stones  on  the  sofas  in  the  miserable  saloon 
of  the  tiny  boat,  their  feet  wrapped  in  plaids, 
and  their  eyes  closed.  The  lady,  as  she  thought, 
suffered  worst  of  all,  and  several  times  was 
overcome  with  sickness.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  dying.  But  the  stewardess  who  came 
to  and  fro  with  the  basin,  the  stewardess  who 
had  been  for  years,  day  in,  day  out,  through 
heat  and  cold,  tossing  on  these  waves,  and  who 
was  still  indefatigable,  even  kind  to  every  one 
— she  only  smiled.  The  younger  lady  from 
San  Francisco  was  deathly  pale,  and  held  in 
her  teeth  a  slice  of  lemon.  Now  not  even  the 
thought  of  meeting  the  prince  at  Sorrento, 
where  he  was  due  to  arrive  by  Christmas, 
could  gladden  her.  The  gentleman  lay  flat  on 
his  back,  in  a  broad  overcoat  and  a  flat  cap,  and 
did  not  loosen  his  jaws  throughout  the  voyage. 
His  face  grew  dark,  his  moustache  white,  his 
head  ached  furiously.  For  the  last  few  days, 
owing  to  the  bad  weather,  he  had  been  drink- 

25 


The  Gentleman  From 


ing  heavily,  and  had  more  than  once  admired 
the  "tableaux  vivants."  The  rain  whipped  on 
the  rattling  window-panes,  under  which  water 
dripped  on  to  the  sofas,  the  wind  beat  the 
masts  with  a  howl,  and  at  moments,  aided  by 
an  onrushing  wave,  laid  the  little  steamer  right 
on  its  side,  whereupon  something  would  roll 
noisily  away  below.  At  the  stopping  places, 
Castellamare,  Sorrento,  things  were  a  little 
better.  But  even  the  ship  heaved  frightfully, 
and  the  coast  with  all  its  precipices,  gardens, 
pines,  pink  and  white  hotels,  and  hazy,  curly 
green  mountains  swooped  past  the  window,  up 
and  down,  as  if  it  were  on  swings.  The  boats 
bumped  against  the  side  of  the  ship,  the  sailors 
and  passengers  shouted  lustily,  and  somewhere 
a  child,  as  if  crushed  to  death,  choked 
itself  with  screaming.  The  damp  wind  blew 
through  the  doors,  and  outside  on  the  sea,  from 
a  reeling  boat  which  showed  the  flag  of  the 
Hotel  Royal,  a  fellow  with  guttural  French 

26 


San  Francisco 


exaggeration  yelled  unceasingly:  "Rrroy-al! 
Hotel  Rrroy-al!"  intending  to  lure  passengers 
aboard  his  craft.  Then  the  Gentleman  from 
San  Francisco,  feeling,  as  he  ought  to  have 
felt,  quite  an  old  man,  thought  with  anguish 
and  spite  of  all  these  "Royals,"  "Splendids," 
"Excelsiors,"  and  of  these  greedy,  good-for- 
nothing,  garlic-stinking  fellows  called  Ital- 
ians. Once,  during  a  halt,  on  opening  his  eyes 
and  rising  from  the  sofa  he  saw  under  the 
rocky  cliff-curtain  of  the  coast  a  heap  of  such 
miserable  stone  hovels,  all  musty  and  mouldy, 
stuck  on  top  of  one  another  by  the  very  water, 
among  the  boats,  and  rags  of  all  sorts,  tin 
cans  and  brown  fishing-nets,  and,  remember- 
ing that  this  was  the  very  Italy  he  had  come 
to  enjoy,  he  was  seized  with  despair.  .  .  . 
At  last,  in  the  twilight,  the  black  mass  of  the 
island  began  to  loom  nearer,  looking  as  if  it 
were  bored  through  at  the  base  with  little  red 
lights.  The  wind  grew  softer,  warmer,  more 

27 


The  Gentleman  From 


sweet-smelling.  Over  the  tamed  waves,  un- 
dulating like  black  oil,  there  came  flowing 
golden  boa-constrictors  of  light  from  the  lan- 
terns of  the  harbour.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly  the 
anchor  rumbled  and  fell  with  a  splash  into 
the  water.  Furious  cries  of  the  boatmen 
shouting  against  one  another  came  from  all 
directions.  And  relief  was  felt  at  once.  The 
electric  light  of  the  cabin  shone  brighter,  and 
a  desire  to  eat,  drink,  smoke,  move  once  more 
made  itself  felt.  .  .  .  Ten  minutes  later  the 
family  from  San  Francisco  disembarked  into 
a  large  boat;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  had 
stepped  on  to  the  stones  of  the  quay,  and  were 
soon  seated  in  the  bright  little  car  of  the  funic- 
ular railway.  With  a  buzz  they  were  ascend- 
ing the  slope,  past  the  stakes  of  the  vineyards 
and  wet,  sturdy  orange-trees,  here  and  there 
protected  by  straw  screens,  past  the  thick 
glossy  foliage  and  the  brilliancy  of  orange 
fruits.  .  .  .  Sweetly  smells  the  earth  in  Italy 

28 


San  Francisco 


after  rain,  and  each  of  her  islands  has  its  own 
peculiar  aroma.  • 

The  island  of  Capri  was  damp  and  dark  that 
evening.  For  the  moment,  however,  it  had 
revived,  and  was  lighted  up  here  and  there  as 
usual  at  the  hour  of  the  steamer's  arrival.  At 
the  top  of  the  ascent,  on  the  little  piazza  by 
the  funicular  station  stood  the  crowd  of  those 
whose  duty  it  was  to  receive  with  propriety  the 
luggage  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Fran- 
cisco. There  were  other  arrivals  too,  but  none 
worthy  of  notice:  a  few  Russians  who  had 
settled  in  Capri,  untidy  and  absent-minded 
owing  to  their  bookish  thoughts,  spectacled, 
bearded,  half-buried  in  the  upturned  collars 
of  their  thick  woollen  overcoats.  Then  a 
group  of  long-legged,  long-necked,  round- 
headed  German  youths  in  Tirolese  costumes, 
with  knapsacks  over  their  shoulders,  needing 
no  assistance,  feeling  everywhere  at  home  and 
always  economical  in  tips.  The  Gentleman 

29 


The  Gentleman  From 


from  San  Francisco,  who  kept  quietly  apart 
from  both  groups,  was  marked  out  at  once. 
He  and  his  ladies  were  hastily  assisted  from 
the  car,  men  ran  in  front  to  show  them  the 
way,  and  they  set  off  on  foot,  surrounded  by 
urchins  and  by  the  sturdy  Capri  women  who 
carry  on  their  heads  the  luggage  of  decent 
travellers.  Across  the  piazza,  that  looked  like 
an  opera  scene  in  the  light  of  the  electric  globe 
that  swung  aloft  in  the  damp  wind,  clacked  the 
wooden  pattens  of  the  women-porters.  The 
gang  of  urchins  began  to  whistle  to  the  Gentle- 
manxfrona  San  Francisco,  and  to  turn  somer- 
saults around  him,  whilst  he,  as  if  on  the  stage, 
marched  among  them  towards  a  mediaeval 
archway  and  under  huddled  houses,  behind 
which  led  a  little  echoing  lane,  past  tufts  of 
palm-trees  showing  above  the  flat  roofs  to  the 
left,  and  under  the  stars  in  the  dark  blue  sky, 
upwards  towards  the  shining  entrance  of  the 
hotel.  .  .  .  And  again  it  seemed  as  if  purely 

30 


San  Francisco 


in  honour  of  the  guests  from  San  Francisco 
the  damp  little  town  on  the  rocky  little  island 
of  the  Mediterranean  had  revived  from  its 
evening  stupor,  that  their  arrival  alone  had 
made  the  hotel  proprietor  so  happy  and 
hearty,  and  that  for  them  had  been  waiting  the 
Chinese  gong  which  sent  its  howlings  through 
all  the  house  the  moment  they  crossed  the  door- 
step. 

The  sight  of  the  proprietor,  a  superbly  ele- 
gant young  man  with  a  polite  and  exquisite 
bow,  startled  for  a  moment  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco.  In  the  first  flash,  he 
remembered  that  amid  the  chaos  of  images 
which  had  possessed  him  the  previous  night 
<in  his  sleep,  he  had  seen  that  very  man,  to  a  / 
the  same  man,  in  the  same  full-skirted  frock- 
coat  and  with  the  same  glossy,  perfectly 
smoothed  hair.  Startled,  he  hesitated  for  a 
second.  But  long,  long  ago  he  had  lost  the 
last  mustard-seed  of  any  mystical"  feelmg~  fie 


The  Gentleman  From 


might  ever  have  had,  and  his  surprise  at  once 
faded.  He  told  the  curious  coincidence  of 
dream  and  reality  jestingly  to  his  wife  and 
daughter,  as  they  passed  along  the  hotel  cor- 
ridor. And  only  his  daughter  glanced  at  him 
with  a  little  alarm.  Her  heart  suddenly  con- 
tracted with  homesickness,  with  such  a  vio- 
lent feeling  of  loneliness  in  this  dark,  foreign 
island,  that  she  nearly  wept.  As  usual,  how- 
ever, she  did  not  mention  her  feelings  to  her 
father. 

Reuss  XVII.,  a  high  personage  who  had 
spent  three  whole  weeks  on  Capri,  had  just 
left,  and  the  visitors  were  installed  in  the 
suite  of  rooms  that  he  had  occupied.  To  them 
was  assigned  the  most  beautiful  and  expert 
chambermaid,  a  Belgian  with  a  thin,  firmly 
corseted  figure,  and  a  starched  cap  in  the 
shape  of  a  tiny  indented  crown.  The  most 
experienced  and  distinguished-looking  foot- 
man was  placed  at  their  service,  a  coal-black, 

32 


San  Francisco 


fiery-eyed  Sicilian,  and  also  the  smartest 
waiter,  the  small,  stout  Luigi,  a  tremendous 
buffoon,  who  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  life.  In 
a  minute  or  two  a  gentle  tap  was  heard  at  the 
door  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco, 
and  there  stood  the  maitre  df  hotel,  a  French- 
man, who  had  come  to  ask  if  the  guests  would 
take  dinner,  and  to  report,  in  case  of  answer  in 
the  affirmative — of  which,  however,  he  had 
small  doubt — that  this  evening  there  were 
Mediterranean  lobsters,  roast  beef,  asparagus, 
pheasants,  etc.,  etc.  The  floor  was  still  rock- 
ing under  the  feet  of  the  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco,  so  rolled  about  had  he  been  on  that 
wretched,  grubby  Italian  steamer.  Yet  with 
his  own  hands,  calmly,  though  clumsily  from 
lack  of  experience,  he  closed  the  window 
which  had  banged  at  the  entrance  of  the  maitre 
d'hotel,  shutting  out  the  drifting  smell  of  dis- 
tant kitchens  and  of  wet  flowers  in  the  garden. 
Then  he  turned  and  replied  with  unhurried 

33 


The  Gentleman  From 


distinctness,  that  they  would  take  dinner,  that 
their  table  must  be  far  from  the  door,  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  dining-room,  that  they 
would  have  local  wine  and  champagne,  mod- 
erately dry  and  slightly  cooled.  To  all  of 
which  the  maitre  d'hdtel  gave  assent  in  the 
most  varied  intonations,  which  conveyed  that 
there  was  not  and  could  not  be  the  faintest 
question  of  the  justness  of  the  desires  of  the 
Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  and  that 
everything  should  be  exactly  as  he  wished.  At 
the  end  he  inclined  his  head  and  politely  in- 
quired: 

"Is  that  all,  sir?" 

On  receiving  a  lingering  "Yes,"  he  added 
that  Carmela  and  Giuseppe,  famous  all  over 
Italy  and  "to  all  the  world  of  tourists,"  were 
going  to  dance  the  tarantella  that  evening  in 
the  hall. 

"I  have  seen  picture-postcards  of  her,"  said 
the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  in  a  voice 

34 


San  Francisco 


expressive  of  nothing.  "And  is  Giuseppe  her 
husband?" 

"Her  cousin,  sir,"  replied  the  maitre 
d'hotel. 

The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  was 
silent  for  a  while,  thinking  of  something,  but 
saying  nothing;  then  he  dismissed  the  man 
with  a  nod  of  the  head.  After  which  he  began 
to  make  preparations  as  if  for  his  wedding. 
He  turned  on  all  the  electric  lights,  and  filled 
the  mirrors  with  brilliance  and  reflection  of 
furniture  and  open  trunks.  He  began  to  shave 
and  wash,  ringing  the  bell  every  minute,  and 
down  the  corridor  raced  and  crossed  the  im- 
patient ringings  from  the  rooms  of  his  wife 
and  daughter.  Luigi,  with  the  nimbleness 
peculiar  to  certain  stout  people,  making 
grimaces  of  horror  which  brought  tears  of 
laughter  to  the  eyes  of  chambermaids  dashing 
past  with  marble-white  pails,  turned  a  cart- 
wheel to  the  gentleman's  door,  and  tapping 

35 


The  Gentleman  From 


with  his  knuckles,  in  a  voice  of  sham  timidity 
and  respectfulness  reduced  to  idiocy,  asked : 

"Ha  suonato,  Signore?" 

From  behind  the  door,  a  slow,  grating, 
offensively  polite  voice: 

"Yes,  come  in." 

What  were  the  feelings,  what  were  the 
thoughts  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Fran- 
cisco on  that  evening  so  significant  to  him? 
He  felt  nothing  exceptional,  since  unfortu- 
nately everything  on  this  earth  is  too  simple 
in  appearance.  Even  had  he  felt  something 
imminent  in  his  soul,  all  the  same  he  would 
have  reasoned  that,  whatever  it  might  be,  it 
could  not  take  place  immediately.  Besides,  as 
with  all  who  have  just  experienced  seasick- 
ness, he  was  very  hungry,  and  looked  forward 
with  delight  to  the  first  spoonful  of  soup,  the 
first  mouthful  of  wine.  So  he  performed  the 
customary  business  of  dressing  in  a  state  of 
excitement  which  left  no  room  for  reflection. 

36 


San  Francisco 


Having  shaved,  washed,  and  dexterously  ar- 
ranged several  artificial  teeth,  standing  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  he  moistened  his  silver- 
mounted  brushes  and  plastered  the  remains  of 
his  thick  pearly  hair  on  his  swarthy  yellow 
skull.  He  drew  on  to  his  strong  old  body, 
with  its  abdomen  protuberant  from  excessive 
good  living,  his  cream-coloured  silk  under- 
wear, put  black  silk  socks  and  patent-leather 
slippers  on  his  flat-footed  feet.  He  put  sleeve- 
links  in  the  shining  cuffs  of  his  snow-white 
shirt,  and  bending  forward  so  that  his  shirt 
front  bulged  out,  he  arranged  his  trousers 
that  were  pulled  up  high  by  his  silk  braces, 
and  began  to  torture  himself,  putting  his  col- 
lar-stud through  the  stiff  collar.  The  floor 
was  still  rocking  beneath  him,  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  hurt,  the  stud  at  moments  pinched  the 
flabby  skin  in  the  recess  under  his  Adam's 
apple,  but  he  persisted,  and  at  last,  with  eyes 
all  strained  and  face  dove-blue  from  the  over- 

37 


The  Gentleman  From 


tight  collar  that  enclosed  his  throat,  he 
finished  the  business  and  sat  down  exhausted 
in  front  of  the  pier  glass,  which  reflected  the 
whole  of  him,  and  repeated  him  in  all  the 
other  mirrors. 

"It  is  awful!"  he  muttered,  dropping  his 
strong,  bald  head,  but  without  trying  to  under- 
stand or  to  know  what  was  awful.  Then, 
with  habitual  careful  attention  examining  his 
gouty-jointed  short  fingers  and  large,  convex, 
almond-shaped  finger-nails,  he  repeated:  "It 
is  awful.  ..." 

As  if  from  a  pagan  temple  shrilly  resounded 
the  second  gong  through  the  hotel.  The 
Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  got  up  hastily, 
pulled  his  shirt-collar  still  tighter  with  his 
tie,  and  his  abdomen  tighter  with  his  open 
waistcoat,  settled  his  cuffs  and  again  examined 
himself  in  the  mirror.  .  .  .  "That  Carmela, 
swarthy,  with  her  enticing  eyes,  looking  like 
a  mulatto  in  her  dazzling-coloured  dress, 

38 


San  Francisco 


chiefly  orange,  she  must  be  an  extraordinary 
dancer — "  he  was  thinking.  So,  cheerfully 
leaving  his  room  and  walking  on  the  carpet  to 
his  wife's  room,  he  called  to  ask  if  they  were 
nearly  ready. 

"In  five  minutes,  Dad,"  came  the  gay  voice 
of  the  girl  from  behind  the  door.  "I'm  ar- 
ranging my  hair." 

"Right-o!"  said  the  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco. 

Imagining  to  himself  her  long  hair  hanging 
to  the  floor,  he  slowly  walked  along  the  cor- 
ridors and  staircases  covered  with  red  carpet, 
down-stairs,  looking  for  the  reading-room. 
The  servants  he  encountered  on  the  way 
pressed  close  to  the  wall,  and  he  walked  past 
as  if  not  noticing  them.  An  old  lady,  late  for 
dinner,  already  stooping  with  age,  with  milk- 
white  hair  and  yet  decolletee  in  her  pale  grey 
silk  dress,  hurried  at  top  speed,  funnily,  hen- 
like,  and  he  easily  overtook  her.  By  the  glass- 

39 


The  Gentleman  From 


door  of  the  dining-room,  wherein  the  guests 
had  already  started  the  meal,  he  stopped  be- 
fore a  little  table  heaped  with  boxes  of  cigars 
and  cigarettes,  and  taking  a  large  Manilla, 
threw  three  liras  on  the  table.  After  which  he 
passed  along  the  winter  terrace,  and  glanced 
through  an  open  window.  From  the  darkness 
came  a  waft  of  soft  air,  and  there  loomed  the 
top  of  an  old  palm-tree  that  spread  its  boughs 
over  the  stars,  looking  like  a  giant,  bringing' 
down  the  far-off  smooth  quivering  of  the  sea. 
...  In,  the  reading-room,  cosy  with  the. 
shaded  reading-lamps,  a  grey,  untidy  German, 
looking  rather  like  Ibsen  in  his  round  silver- 
rimmed  spectacles  and  with  mad  astonished  - 
eyes,  stood  rustling  the  newspapers.  After 
coldly  eyeing  him,  the  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco  seated  himself  in  a  deep  leather 
armchair  in  a  corner,  by  a  lamp  with  a  green 
shade,  put  on  his  pince-nez,  and,  with  a  stretch 
of  his  neck  because  of  the  tightness  of  his  shirt- 

40 


San  Francisco 


collar,  obliterated  himself  behind  a  news- 
paper. He  glanced  over  the  headlines,  read 
a  few  sentences  about  the  never-ending  Balkan 
war,  then  with  a  habitual  movement  turned 
over  the  page  of  the  newspaper — when  sud- 
denly the  lines  blazed  up  before  him  in  a 
glassy  sheen,  his  neck  swelled,  his  eyes  bulged, 
and  the  pince-nez  came  flying  off  his  nose. 
.  .  .  He  lunged  forward,  wanted  to  breathe 
— and  rattled  wildly.  His  lower  jaw  dropped, 
and  his  mouth  shone  with  gold  fillings.  His 
head  fell  swaying  on  his  shoulder,  his  shirt- 
front  bulged  out  basket-like,  and  all  his  body, 
writhing,  with  heels  scraping  up  the  carpet, 
slid  down  to  the  floor,  struggling  desperately 
with  some  invisible  foe./ 

If  the  German  had  not  been  in  the  reading- 
room,  the  frightful  affair  could  have  been 
hushed  up.  Instantly,  through  obscure  pas- 
sages the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  could 
have  been  hurried  away  to  some  dark  corner, 

41 


The  Gentleman  From 


and  not  a  single  guest  would  have  discovered 
what  he  had  been  up  to.  But  the  German 
dashed  out  of  the  room  with  a  yell,  alarming 
the  house  and  all  the  diners.  Many  sprang  up 
from  the  table,  upsetting  their  chairs;  many, 
pallid,  ran  towards  the  reading-room,  and  in 
every  language  it  was  asked :  "What — what's 
the  matter?"  None  answered  intelligibly, 
nobody  understood,  for  even  to-day  people  are 
more  surprised  at  death  than  at  anything  else, 
and  never  want  to  believe  it  is  true.  The  pro- 
prietor rushed  from  one  guest  to  another,  try- 
ing to  keep  back  those  who  were  hastening  up, 
to  soothe  them  with  assurances  that  it  was  a 
mere  trifle,  a  fainting-fit  that  had  overcome  a 
certain  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco.  .  .  . 
But  no  one  heeded  him.  Many  saw  how  the 
porters  and  waiters  were  tearing  off  the  tie, 
waistcoat,  and  crumpled  dress-coat  from  that 
same  gentleman,  even,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  pulling  off  his  patent  evening-shoes 

42 


San  Francisco 


from  his  black-silk,  flat-footed  feet.  And  he 
was  still  writhing.  He  continued  to  struggle 
with  death,  by  no  means  wanting  to  yield  to 
that  which  had  so  unexpectedly  and  rudely 
overtaken  him.  He  rolled  his  head,  rattled 
like  one  throttled,  and  turned  up  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  as  if  he  were  drunk.  When  he  had 
been  hastily  carried  into  room  No.  43,  the 
smallest,  wretchedest,  dampest,  and  coldest 
room  at  the  end  of  the  bottom  corridor,  his 
daughter  came  running  with  her  hair  all  loose, 
her  dressing-gown  flying  open,  showing  her 
bosom  raised  by  her  corsets:  then  his  wife, 
large  and  heavy  and  completely  dressed  for 
dinner,  her  mouth  opened  round  with  terror. 
But  by  that  time  he  had  already  ceased  rolling 
his  head. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  hotel  settled 
down  somehow  or  other.  But  the  evening  was 
ruined.  The  guests,  returning  to  the  dining- 
room,  finished  their  dinner  in  silence,  with  a 

43 


The  Gentleman  From 


look  of  injury  on  their  faces,  whilst  the  pro- 
prietor went  from  one  to  another,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  in  hopeless  and  natural  irritation, 
feeling  himself  guilty  through  no  fault  of  his 
own,  assuring  everybody  that  he  perfectly 
realized  "how  disagreeable  this  is,"  and  giv- 
ing his  word  that  he  would  take  "every  pos- 
sible measure  within  his  power"  to  remove 
the  trouble.  The  tarantella  had  to  be  can- 
celled, the  superfluous  lights  were  switched 
off,  most  of  the  guests  went  to  the  bar,  and 
soon  the  house  became  so  quiet  that  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  was  heard  distinctly  in  the  hall, 
where  the  lonely  parrot  woodenly  muttered 
something  as  he  bustled  about  in  his  cage  pre- 
paratory to  going  to  sleep,  and  managed  to  fall 
asleep  at  length  with  his  paw  absurdly  sus- 
pended from  the  little  upper  perch.  .  .  . 
The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  lay  on  a 
cheap  iron  bed  under  coarse  blankets  on  to 
which  fell  a  dim  light  from  the  obscure  elec- 

44 


San  Francisco 


trie  lamp  in  the  ceiling.  An  ice-bag  slid  down 
on  his  wet,  cold  forehead;  his  blue,  already 
lifeless  face  grew  gradually  cold ;  the  hoarse 
bubbling  which  came  from  his  open  mouth, 
where  the  gleam  of  gold  still  showed,  grew 
weak.  The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 
rattled  no  longer;  he  was  no  more — some- 
thing else  lay  in  his  place.  His  wife,  his 
daughter,  the  doctor,  and  the  servants  stood 
and  watched  him  dully.  Suddenly  that  which 
they  feared  and  expected  happened.  The  rat- 
tling ceased.  And  slowly,  slowly  under  their 
eyes  a  pallor  spread  over  the  face  of  the  de- 
ceased, his  features  began  to  grow  thinner, 
more  transparent  .  .  .  with  a  beauty  which 
might  have  suited  him  long  ago.  .  .  . 

Entered  the  proprietor.  "Gia,  e  mortol" 
whispered  the  doctor  to  him.  The  proprietor 
raised  his  shoulders,  as  if  it  were  not  his  affair. 
The  wife,  on  whose  cheeks  tears  were  slowly 
trickling,  approached  and  timidly  asked  that 

45 


The  Gentleman  From 


the  deceased  should  be  taken  to  his  own  room. 

"Oh,  no,  madame,"  hastily  replied  the  pro- 
prietor, politely,  but  coldly,  and  not  in  Eng- 
lish, but  in  French.  He  was  no  longer  inter- 
ested in  the  trifling  sum  the  guests  from  San 
Francisco  would  leave  at  his  cash  desk.  "That 
is  absolutely  impossible."  Adding  by  way  of 
explanation,  that  he  valued  that  suite  of  rooms 
highly,  and  that  should  he  accede  to  madame's 
request,  the  news  would  be  known  all  over 
Capri  and  no  one  would  take  the  suite  after- 
wards. 

The  young  lady,  who  had  glanced  at  him 
strangely  all  the  time,  now  sat  down  in  a  chair 
and  sobbed,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth.  The  elder  lady's  tears  dried  at  once, 
her  face  flared  up.  Raising  her  voice  and 
using  her  own  language  she  began  to  insist, 
unable  to  believe  that  the  respect  for  them  had 
gone  already.  The  manager  cut  her  short 
with  polite  dignity.  "If  madame  does  not 

46 


San  Francisco 


like  the  ways  of  the  hotel,  he  dare  not  detain 
her."  And  he  announced  decisively  that  the 
corpse  must  be  removed  at  dawn :  the  police 
had  already  been  notified,  and  an  official 
would  arrive  presently  to  attend  to  the  neces- 
sary formalities.  "Is  it  possible  to  get  a  plain 
coffin?"  madame  asked.  Unfortunately  not! 
Impossible!  And  there  was  no  time  to  make 
one.  It  would  have  to  be  arranged  somehow. 
Yes,  the  English  soda-water  came  in  large 
strong  boxes — if  the  divisions  were  removed. 
The  whole  hotel  was  asleep.  The  window 
of  No.  43  w  s  open,  on  to  a  corner  of  the  gar- 
den where,  under  a  high  stone  wall  ridged 
with  broken  glass,  grew  a  battered  banana 
tree.  The  light  was  turned  off,  the  door 
locked,  the  room  deserted.  The  deceased  re- 
mained in  the  darkness,  blue  stars  glanced  at 
him  from  the  black  sky,  a  cricket  started  to 
chirp  with  sad  carelessness  in  the  wall.  .  .  . 
Out  in  the  dimly-lit  corridor  two  chamber- 

47 


The  Gentleman  From 


maids  were  seated  in  a  window-sill,  mending 
something.  Entered  Luigi,  in  slippers,  with 
a  heap  of  clothes  in  his  hand. 

"Pronto?"  he  asked,  in  a  singing  whisper, 
indicating  with  his  eyes  the  dreadful  door  at 
the  end  of  the  corridor.  Then  giving  a  slight 
wave  thither  with  his  free  hand:  "Patenza!" 
he  shouted  in  a  whisper,  as  though  sending  off 
a  train.  The  chambermaids,  choking  with 
noiseless  laughter,  dropped  their  heads  on 
each  other's  shoulders. 

Tip-toeing,  Luigi  went  to  the  very  door, 
tapped,  and  cocking  his  head  on  one  side  asked 
respectfully,  in  a  subdued  tone : 

"Ha  suonato,  Signore?" 

Then  contracting  his  throat  and  shoving  out 
his  jaw,  he  answered  himself  in  a  grating, 
drawling,  mournful  voice,  which  seemed  to 
come  from  behind  the  door : 

"Yes,  come  in.   ..." 

When  the  dawn  grew  white  at  the  window 
48 


San  Francisco 


of  No.  43,  and  a  damp  wind  began  rustling  the 
tattered  fronds  of  the  banana  tree ;  as  the  blue 
sky  of  morning  lifted  and  unfolded  over  Ca- 
pri, and  Monte  Solaro,  pure  and  distinct, 
grew  golden,  catching  the  sun  which  was  ris- 
ing beyond  the  far-off  blue  mountains  of  Italy; 
just  as  the  labourers  who  were  mending  the 
paths  of  the  islands  for  the  tourists  came  out 
for  work,  a  long  box  was  carried  into  room 
No.  43.  Soon  this  box  weighed  heavily,  and 
it  painfully  pressed  the  knees  of  the  porter 
who  was  carrying  it  in  a  one-horse  cab  down 
the  winding  white  high-road,  between  stone 
walls  and  vineyards,  down,  down  the  face  of 
Capri  to  the  sea.  The  driver,  a  weakly  little 
fellow  with  reddened  eyes,  in  bursting  boots 
and  a  little  old  jacket  with  sleeves  too  short, 
kept  flogging  his  wiry  small  horse  that  was 
decorated  in  Sicilian  fashion,  its  harness 
tinkling  with  busy  little  bells  and  edged  with 
fringes  of  scarlet  wool,  the  high  saddle-peak 

49 


The  Gentleman  From 


gleaming  with  copper  and  tufted  with  colour, 
and  a  yard-long  plume  nodding  from  the  pony's 
cropped  head,  from  between  the  ears.  The 
cabby  had  spent  the  whole  night  playing  dice 
in  the  inn,  and  was  still  under  the  effects  of 
drink.  Silent,  he  was  depressed  by  his  own 
debauchery  and  vice ;  by  the  fact  that  he  gam- 
bled away  to  the  last  farthing  all  those  copper 
coins  with  which  his  pockets  had  yesterday 
been  full,  in  all  four  lire,  forty  centesimi.  But 
the  morning  was  fresh.  In  such  air,  with  the 
sea  all  round,  under  the  morning  sky  head- 
aches evaporate,  and  man  soon  regains  his 
cheerfulness.  Moreover,  the  cabby  was 
cheered  by  this  unexpected  fare  which  he  was 
making  out  of  some  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco,  who  was  nodding  his  dead  head  in 
a  box  at  the  back.  The  little  steamer,  which 
lay  like  a  water-beetle  on  the  tender  bright 
blueness  which  brims  the  bay  of  Naples,  was 
already  giving  the  final  hoots,  and  this  tooting 

50 


San  Francisco 


resounded  again  cheerily  all  over  the  island. 
Each  contour,  each  ridge,  each  rock  was  so 
clearly  visible  in  every  direction,  it  was  as  if 
there  were  no  atmosphere  at  all.  Near  the 
beach  the  porter  in  the  cab  was  overtaken  by 
the  head  porter  dashing  down  in  an  auto- 
mobile with  the  lady  and  her  daughter,  both 
pale,  their  eyes  swollen  with  the  tears  of  a 
sleepless  night.  .  .  .  And  in  ten  minutes  the 
little  steamer  again  churned  up  the  water  and 
made  her  way  back  to  Sorrento,  to  Castella- 
mare,  bearing  away  from  Capri  for  ever  the 
family  from  San  Francisco.  .  .  .  And  peace 
and  tranquillity  reigned  once  more  on  the 
island. 

On  that  island  two  thousand  years  ago  lived 
a  man  entangled  in  his  own  infamous  and 
strange  acts,  one  whose  rule  for  some  reason 
extended  over  millions  of  people,  and  who, 
having  lost  his  head  through  the  absurdity  of 
such  power,  committed  deeds  which  have 

51 


0.0 


The  Gentleman  From 


established  him  for  ever  in  the  memory  of 
mankind;  mankind  which  in  the  mass  now 
rules  the  world  just  as  hideously  and  incom- 
prehensibly as  he  ruled  it  then.  And  men 
come  here  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  to 
look  at  the  ruins  of  the  stone  house  where  that 
one  man  lived,  on  the  brink  of  one  of  the  steep- 
est cliffs  in  the  island.  On  this  exquisite  morn- 
ing all  who  had  come  to  Capri  for  that  pur- 
pose were  still  asleep  in  the  hotels,  although 
through  the  streets  already  trotted  little  mouse- 
coloured  donkeys  with  red  saddles,  towards 
the  hotel  entrances  where  they  would  wait  pa- 
tiently until,  after  a  good  sleep  and  a  square 
meal,  young  and  old  American  men  and 
women,  German  men  and  women  would 
emerge  and  be  hoisted  up  into  the  saddles,  to 
be  followed  up  the  stony  paths,  yea  to  the  very 
summit  of  Monte  Tiberio,  by  old  persistent 
beggar-women  of  Capri,  with  sticks  in  their 
sinewy  hands.  Quieted  by  the  fact  that  the 

52 


San  Francisco 


dead  old  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  who 
had  intended  to  be  one  of  the  pleasure  party 
but  who  had  only  succeeded  in  frightening  the 
rest  with  the  reminder  of  death,  was  now  being 
shipped  to  Naples,  the  happy  tourists  still 
slept  soundly,  the  island  was  still  quiet,  the 
shops  in  the  little  town  not  yet  open.  Only 
fish  and  greens  were  being  sold  in  the  tiny 
piazza,  only  simple  folk  were  present,  and 
amongst  them,  as  usual  without  occupation, 
the  tall  old  boatman  Lorenzo,  thorough  de- 
bauchee and  handsome  figure,  famous  all  over 
Italy,  model  for  many  a  picture.  He  had 
already  sold  for  a  trifle  two  lobsters  which  he 
had  caught  in  the  night,  and  which  were  rust- 
ling in  the  apron  of  the  cook  of  that  very  same 
hotel  where  the  family  from  San  Francisco 
had  spent  the  night.  And  now  Lorenzo  could 
stand  calmly  till  evening,  with  a  majestic  air 
showing  off  his  rags  and  gazing  round,  hold- 
ing his  clay  pipe  with  its  long  reed  mouth- 

53 


The  Gentleman  From 


piece  in  his  hand,  and  letting  his  scarlet  bonnet 
slip  over  one  ear.  For  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
received  a  salary  from  the  little  town,  from 
the  commune,  which  found  it  profitable  to  pay 
him  to  stand  about  and  make  a  picturesque 
figure — as  everybody  knows.  .  .  .  Down  the 
precipices  of  Monte  Solaro,  down  the  stony 
little  stairs  cut  in  the  rock  of  the  old  Phoeni- 
cian road  came  two  Abruzzi  mountaineers, 
descending  from  Anacapri.  One  carried  a 
bagpipe  under  his  leather  cloak,  a  large  goat 
skin  with  two  little  pipes ;  the  other  had  a  sort 
of  wooden  flute.  They  descended,  and  the 
whole  land,  joyous,  was  sunny  beneath  them. 
They  saw  the  rocky,  heaving  shoulder  of  the 
island,  which  lay  almost  entirely  at  their  feet, 
swimming  in  the  fairy  blueness  of  the  water. 
Shining  morning  vapours  rose  over  the  sea  to 
the  east,  under  a  dazzling  sun  which  already 
burned  hot  as  it  rose  higher  and  higher;  and 
there,  far  off,  the  dimly  cerulean  masses  of 

54 


San  Francisco 


Italy,  of  her  near  and  far  mountains,  still  wav- 
ered blue  as  if  in  the  world's  morning,  in  a 
beauty  no  words  can  express.  .  .  .  Halfway 
down  the  descent  the  pipers  slackened  their 
pace.  Above  the  road,  in  a  grotto  of  the  rocky 
face*  of  Monte  Solaro  stood  the  Mother  of 
God,  the  sun  full  upon  her,  giving  her  a  splen- 
dour of  snow-white  and  blue  raiment,  and 
royal  crown  rusty  from  all  weathers.  Meek 
and  merciful,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  to 
the  eternal  and  blessed  mansions  of  her  thrice- 
holy  Son.  The  pipers  bared  their  heads,  put 
their  pipes  to  their  lips:  and  there  streamed 
forth  naive  and  meekly  joyous  praises  to  the 
sun,  to  the  morning,  to  Her,  Immaculate,  who 
would  intercede  for  all  who  suffer  in  this  mali- 
cious and  lovely  world,  and  to  Him,  born  of 
Her  womb  among  the  caves  of  Bethlehem,  in 
a  lowly  shepherd's  hut,  in  the  far  Judean 
land.  .  .  . 

And  the  body  of  the  dead  old  man  from  San 
55 


The  Gentleman  From 


Francisco  was  returning  home,  to  its  grave,  to 
the  shores  of  the  New  World.  Having  been 
subjected  to  many  humiliations,  much  human 
neglect,  after  a  week's  wandering  from  one 
warehouse  to  another,  it  was  carried  at  last  on 
to  the  same  renowned  vessel  which  so  short  a 
time  ago,  and  with  such  honour,  had  borne 
him  living  to  the  Old  World.  But  now  he  was 
to  be  hidden  far  from  the  knowledge  of  the 
voyagers.  Closed  in  a  tar-coated  coffin,  he  was 
lowered  deep  into  the  vessel's  dark  hold.  And 
again,  again  the  ship  set  out  on  the  long  voy- 
age. She  passed  at  night  near  Capri,  and  to 
those  who  were  looking  out  from  the  island, 
sad  seemed  the  lights  of  the  ship  slowly  hiding 
themselves  in  the  sea's  darkness.  But  there 
aboard  the  liner,  in  the  bright  halls  shining 
with  lights  and  marble,  gay  dancing  filled  the 
evening,  as  usual.  .  .  . 

The  second  evening,  and  the  third  evening, 
still  they  danced,  amid  a  storm  that  swept  over 

56 


San  Francisco 


the  ocean,  booming  like  a  funeral  service,  roll- 
ing up  mountains  of  mourning  darkness 
silvered  with  foam.  Through  the  snow  the 
numerous  fiery  eyes  of  the  ship  were  hardly 
visible  to  the  Devil  who  watched  from  the 
rocks  of  Gibraltar,  from  the  stony  gateway  of 
two  worlds,  peering  after  the  vessel  as  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  night  and  storm.  The  Devil 
was  huge  as  a  cliff.  But  huger  still  was  the  liner, 
many  storeyed,  many  funnelled,  created  by  the 
presumption  of  the  New  Man  with  the  old 
heart  The  blizzard  smote  the  rigging  and  the 
funnels,  and  whitened  the  ship  with  snow,  but 
she  was  enduring,  firm,  majestic — and  hor- 
rible. On  the  topmost  deck  rose  lonely 
amongst  the  snowy  whirlwind  the  cosy  and 
dim  quarters  where  lay  the  heavy  master  of 
the  ship,  he  who  was  like  a  pagan  idol,  sunk 
now  in  a  light,  uneasy  slumber.  Through  his 
sleep  he  heard  the  sombre  howl  and  furious 
screechings  of  the  siren,  muffled  by  the  bliz- 

57 


The  Gentleman  From 


zard.  But  again  he  reassured  himself  by  the 
nearness  of  that  which  stood  behind  his  wall, 
and  was  in  the  last  resort  incomprehensible  to 
him :  by  the  large,  apparently  armoured  cabin 
which  was  now  and  then  filled  with  a  mysteri- 
ous rumbling,  throbbing,  and  crackling  of 
blue  fires  that  flared  up  explosive  around  the 
pale  face  of  the  telegraphist  who,  with  a  metal 
hoop  fixed  on  his  head,  was  eagerly  straining 
to  catch  the  dim  voices  of  vessels  which  spoke 
to  him  from  hundreds  of  miles  away.  In  the 
depths,  in  the  under-water  womb  of  the  Atlan- 
tis, steel  glimmered  and  steam  wheezed,  and 
huge  masses  of  machinery  and  thousand-ton 
boilers  dripped  with  water  and  oil,  as  the  mo- 
tion of  the  ship  was  steadily  cooked  in  this 
vast  kitchen  heated  by  hellish  furnaces  from 
beneath.  Here  bubbled  in  their  awful  concen- 
tration the  powers  which  were  being  trans- 
mitted to  the  keel,  down  an  infinitely  long 
round  tunnel  lit  up  and  brilliant  like  a  gigan- 

58 


San  Francisco 


tic  gun-barrel,  along  which  slowly,  with  a 
regularity  crushing  to  the  human  soul,  re- 
volved a  gigantic  shaft,  precisely  like  a  living 
monster  coiling  and  uncoiling  its  endless 
length  down  the  tunnel,  sliding  on  its  bed  of 
oil.  The  middle  of  the  Atlantis,  the  warm, 
luxurious  cabins,  dining-rooms,  halls,  shed 
light  and  joy,  buzzed  with  the  chatter  of  an 
elegant  crowd,  was  fragrant  with  fresh  flowers 
and  quivered  with  the  sounds  of  a  string  orches- 
tra. And  again  amidst  that  crowd,  amidst  the 
brilliance  of  lights,  silks,  diamonds,  and  bare 
feminine  shoulders,  a  slim  and  supple  pair  of 
hired  lovers  painfully  writhed  and  at  moments 
convulsively  clashed.  A  sinfully  discreet, 
pretty  girl  with  lowered  lashes  and  hair  inno- 
cently dressed,  and  a  tallish  young  man  with 
black  hair  looking  as  if  it  were  glued  on,  pale 
with  powder,  and  wearing  the  most  elegant 
patent-leather  shoes  and  a  narrow,  long-tailed 
dress  coat,  a  beau  resembling  an  enormous 

59 


The  Gentleman  From  San  Francisco 

leech.  And  no  one  knew  that  this  couple  had 
long  since  grown  weary  of  shamly  tormenting 
themselves  with  their  beatific  love-tortures,  to 
the  sound  of  bawdy-sad  music;  nor  did  any 
one  know  of  that  thing  which  lay  deep,  deep 
below  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  dark  hold,  near 
the  gloomy  and  sultry  bowels  of  the  ship  that 
was  so  gravely  overcoming  the  darkness,  the 
ocean,  the  blizzard.  .  .  . 


60 


GENTLE  BREATHING 

Translated  by 

S.   S.   KOTELIANSKY 
AND 

LEONARD  WOOLF 


GENTLE  BREATHING 

IN  the  cemetery  above  a  fresh  mound  of 
earth  stands  a  new  cross  of  oak — strong,  heavy, 
smooth,  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  at.  It  is 
April,  but  the  days  are  grey.  From  a  long 
way  off  one  can  see  through  the  bare  trees  the 
tombstones  in  the  cemetery — a  spacious,  real 
country  or  cathedral  town  cemetery;  the  cold 
wind  goes  whistling,  whistling  through  the 
china  wreath  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  In  the 
cross  itself  is  set  a  rather  large  bronze  medal- 
lion, and  in  the  medallion  is  a  portrait  of  a 
smart  and  charming  school-girl,  with  happy, 
astonishingly  vivacious  eyes. 

It  is  Olga  Meschersky. 

As  a  little  girl  there  was  nothing  to  distin- 
guish her  in  the  noisy  crowd  of  brown  dresses 

63 


Gentle  Breathing 


which  made  its  discordant  and  youthful  hum 
in  the  corridors  and  class-rooms;  all  that  one 
could  say  of  her  was  that  she  was  just  one  of  a 
number  of  pretty,  rich,  happy  little  girls,  that 
she  was  clever,  but  playful,  and  very  careless 
of  the  precepts  of  her  class-teacher.  Then  she 
began  to  develop  and  to  blossom,  not  by  days, 
but  by  hours.  At  fourteen,  with  a  slim  waist 
and  graceful  legs,  there  was  already  well  de- 
veloped the  outline  of  her  breasts  and  all  those 
contours  of  which  the  charm  has  never  yet 
been  expressed  in  human  words;  at  fifteen  she 
was  said  to  be  a  beauty.  How  carefully  some 
of  her  school  friends  did  their  hair,  how  clean 
they  were,  how  careful  and  restrained  in  their 
movements!  But  she  was  afraid  of  nothing — 
neither  of  ink-stains  on  her  fingers,  nor  of  a 
flushed  face,  nor  of  dishevelled  hair,  nor  of 
a  bare  knee  after  a  rush  and  a  tumble.  With- 
out a  thought  or  an  effort  on  her  part,  imper- 
ceptibly there  came  to  her  everything  which 


Gentle  Breathing 


so  distinguished  her  from  the  rest  of  the  school 
during  her  last  two  years — daintiness,  smart- 
ness, quickness,  the  bright  and  intelligent 
gleam  in  her  eyes.  No  one  danced  like  Olga 
Meschersky,  no  one  could  run  or  skate  like 
her,  no  one  at  dances  had  as  many  admirers  as 
she  had,  and  for  some  reason  no  one  was  so 
popular  with  the  junior  classes.  Impercep- 
tibly she  grew  up  into  a  girl  and  imperceptibly 
her  fame  in  the  school  became  established,  and 
already  there  were  rumours  that  she  was 
flighty,  that  she  could  not  live  without  ad- 
mirers, that  the  schoolboy,  Shensin,  was  madly 
in  love  with  her,  that  she,  too,  perhaps  loved 
him,  but  was  so  changeable  in  her  treatment 
of  him  that  he  tried  to  commit  suicide.  .  .  . 
During  her  last  winter,  Olga  Meschersky 
went  quite  crazy  with  happiness,  so  they  said 
at  school.  It  was  a  snowy,  sunny,  frosty  win- 
ter; the  sun  would  go  down  early  behind  the 
grove  of  tall  fir-trees  in  the  snowy  school 

65 


Gentle  Breathing 


garden;  but  it  was  always  fine  and  radiant 
weather,  with  a  promise  of  frost  and  sun  again 
to-morrow,  a  walk  in  Cathedral  Street,  skat- 
ing in  the  town  park,  a  pink  sunset,  music,  and 
that  perpetually  moving  crowd  in  which  Olga 
Meschersky  seemed  to  be  the  smartest,  the 
most  careless,  and  the  happiest.  And  then, 
one  day,  when  she  was  rushing  like  a  whirl- 
wind through  the  recreation  room  with  the 
little  girls  chasing  her  and  screaming  for  joy, 
she  was  unexpectedly  called  up  to  the  head- 
mistress. She  stopped  short,  took  one  deep 
breath,  with  a  quick  movement,  already  a 
habit,  arranged  her  hair,  gave  a  pull  to  the 
corners  of  her  apron  to  bring  it  upon  her 
shoulders,  and  with  shining  eyes  ran  upstairs. 
The  headmistress,  small,  youngish,  but  grey- 
haired,  sat  quietly  with  her  knitting  in  her 
hands  at  the  writing-table,  under  the  portrait 
of  the  Tsar. 

"Good  morning,   Miss   Meschersky,"   she 
66 


Gentle  Breathing 


said  in  French,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
her  knitting.  "I  am  sorry  this  is  not  the  first 
time  that  I  have  had  to  call  you  here  to  speak 
to  you  about  your  behaviour." 

"I  am  attending,  madam,"  answered  Olga, 
coming  up  to  the  table,  looking  at  her  brightly 
and  happily,  but  with  an  expressionless  face, 
and  curtsying  so  lightly  and  gracefully,  as 
only  she  could. 

"You  will  attend  badly — unfortunately  I 
have  become  convinced  of  that,"  said  the 
headmistress,  giving  a  pull  at  the  thread  so 
that  the  ball  rolled  away  over  the  polished 
floor,  and  Olga  watched  it  with  curiosity.  The 
headmistress  raised  her  eyes:  "I  shall  not 
repeat  myself,  I  shall  not  say  much,"  she  said. 

Olga  very  much  liked  the  unusually  clean 
and  large  study;  on  frosty  days  the  air 
in  it  was  so  pleasant  with  the  warmth  from 
the  shining  Dutch  fire-place,  and  the  fresh 
lilies-of-the-valley  on  the  writing-table.  She 

67 


Gentle  Breathing 


glanced  at  the  young  Tsar,  painted  full-length 
in  a  splendid  hall,  at  the  smooth  parting  in  the 
white,  neatly  waved  hair  of  the  headmistress; 
she  waited  in  silence. 

"You  are  no  longer  a  little  girl,"  said  the 
headmistress  meaningly,  beginning  to  feel 
secretly  irritated. 

"Yes,  madam,"  answered  Olga  simply, 
almost  merrily. 

"But  neither  are  you  a  woman  yet,"  said  the 
headmistress,  still  more  meaningly,  and  her 
pale  face  flushed  a  little.  "To  begin  with, 
why  do  you  do  your  hair  like  that?  You  do 
it  like  a  woman." 

"It  is  not  my  fault,  madam,  that  I  have  nice 
hair,"  Olga  replied,  and  gave  a  little  touch 
with  both  hands  to  her  beautifully  dressed 
hair. 

"Ah,  is  that  it?  You  are  not  to  blame!" 
said  the  headmistress.  "You  are  not  to  blame 
for  the  way  you  do  your  hair;  you  are  not  to 

68 


Gentle  Breathing 


blame  for  those  expensive  combs ;  you  are  not 
to  blame  for  ruining  your  parents  with  your 
twenty-rouble  shoes.  But,  I  repeat,  you  com- 
pletely forget  that  you  are  still  only  a  school- 
girl  " 

And  here  Olga,  without  losing  her  sim- 
plicity and  calm,  suddenly  interrupted  her 
politely: 

"Excuse  me,  madam,  you  are  mistaken — I 
am  a  woman.  And,  do  you  know  who  is  to 
blame  for  that?  My  father's  friend  and 
neighbour,  your  brother,  Alexey  Mikhailo- 
vitch  Malyntin.  It  happened  last  summer  in 
the  country.  ..." 

And  a  month  after  this  conversation,  a 
Cossack  officer,  ungainly  and  of  plebeian 
appearance,  who  had  absolutely  nothing  in 
common  with  Olga  Meschersky's  circle,  shot 
her  on  the  platform  of  the  railway  station,  in 
a  large  crowd  of  people  who  had  just  arrived 

69 


Gentle  Breathing 


by  train.  And  the  incredible  confession  of 
Olga  Meschersky,  which  had  stunned  the 
headmistress,  was  completely  confirmed;  the 
officer  told  the  coroner  that  Meschersky  had 
led  him  on,  had  had  a  liaison  with  him,  had 
promised  to  marry  him,  and  at  the  railway 
station  on  the  day  of  the  murder,  while  seeing 
him  off  to  Novocherkask,  had  suddenly  told 
him  that  she  had  never  thought  of  marrying 
him,  that  all  the  talk  about  marriage  was  only 
to  make  a  fool  of  him,  and  she  gave  him  her 
diary  to  read  with  the  pages  in  it  which  told 
about  Malyntin. 

"I  glanced  through  those  pages,"  said  the 
officer,  "went  out  on  the  platform  where  she 
was  walking  up  and  down,  and  waiting  for  me 
to  finish  reading  it,  and  I  shot  her.    The  diary 
is  in  the  pocket  of  my  overcoat;  look  at  the 
entry  for  July  10  of  last  year." 
And  this  is  what  the  coroner  read : 
"It  is  now  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
70 


Gentle  Breathing 


ing.  I  fell  sound  asleep,  but  woke  up  again 
immediately.  ...  I  have  become  a  woman 
to-day!  Papa,  mamma,  and  Tolya  had  all 
gone  to  town,  and  I  was  left  alone.  I  cannot 
say  how  happy  I  was  to  be  alone.  In  the 
morning  I  walked  in  the  orchard,  in  the  field, 
and  I  went  into  the  woods,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  all  by  myself  in  the  whole  world, 
and  I  never  had  such  pleasant  thoughts  before. 
I  had  lunch  by  myself;  then  I  played  for  an 
hour,  and  the  music  made  me  feel  that  I 
should  live  for  ever,  and  be  happier  than  any 
one  else  had  ever  been.  Then  I  fell  asleep  in 
papa's  study,  and  at  four  o'clock  Kate  woke 
me,  and  said  that  Alexey  Mikhailovitch  had 
come.  I  was  very  glad  to  see  him;  it  was  so 
pleasant  to  receive  him  and  entertain  him.  He 
came  with  his  pair  of  Viatka  horses,  very 
beautiful,  and  they  stood  all  the  time  at  the 
front  door,  but  he  stayed  because  it  was  rain- 
ing, and  hoped  that  the  roads  would  dry 


Gentle  Breathing 


towards  evening.  He  was  very  sorry  not  to 
find  papa  at  home,  was  very  animated  and 
treated  me  very  politely,  and  made  many 
jokes  about  his  having  been  long  in  love  with 
me.  Before  tea  we  walked  in  the  garden,  and 
the  weather  was  charming,  the  sun  shining 
through  the  whole  wet  garden;  but  it  grew 
quite  cold,  and  he  walked  with  me,  arm  in 
arm,  and  said  that  he  was  Faust  with  Mar- 
garete.  He  is  fifty-six,  but  still  very  hand- 
some, and  always  very  well  dressed — the  only 
thing  I  didn't  like  was  his  coming  in  a  sort  of 
cape — he  smells  of  English  eau-de-Cologne, 
and  his  eyes  are  quite  young,  black;  his  beard 
is  long  and  elegantly  parted  down  the  middle, 
it  is  quite  silvery.  We  had  tea  in  the  glass 
verandah,  and  suddenly  I  did  not  feel  very 
well,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa  while  he 
smoked ;  then  he  sat  down  near  me,  and  began 
to  say  nice  things,  and  then  to  take  my  hand 
and  kiss  it.  I  covered  my  face  with  a  silk 

72 


Gentle  Breathing 


handkerchief,  and  several  times  he  kissed  me 
on  the  lips  through  the  handkerchief.  .  .  . 
I  can't  understand  how  it  happened ;  I  went 
mad ;  I  never  thought  I  was  like  that.  Now 
I  have  only  one  way  out.  ...  I  feel  such  a 
loathing  for  him  that  I  cannot  endure  it.  .  .  ."• 

The  town  in  these  April  days  has  become 
clean  and  dry,  its  stones  have  become  white, 
and  it  is  easy  and  pleasant  to  walk  on  them. 
Every  Sunday,  after  mass,  along  Cathedral 
Street,  which  leads  out  of  the  town,  there 
walks  a  little  woman  in  mourning,  in  black 
kid  gloves,  and  with  an  ebony  sunshade.  She 
crosses  the  yard  of  the  fire-station,  crosses  the 
dirty  market-place  by  the  road  where  there 
are  many  black  smithies,  and  where  the  wind 
blows  fresher  from  the  fields ;  in  the  distance, 
between  the  monastery  and  the  gaol,  is  the 
white  slope  of  the  sky  and  the  grey  of 
the  spring  fields;  and  then,  when  you  have 

'73 


Gentle  Breathing 


passed  the  muddy  pools  behind  the  monastery 
wall  and  turn  to  the  left,  you  will  see  what 
looks  like  a  large  low  garden,  surrounded  by 
a  white  wall,  on  the  gates  of  which  is  written 
"The  Assumption  of  Our  Lady."  The  little 
woman  makes  rapid  little  signs  of  the  cross, 
and  always  walks  on  the  main  path.  When 
she  gets  to  the  bench  opposite  the  oak  cross  she 
sits  down,  in  the  wind  and  the  chilly  spring, 
for  an  hour,  two  hours,  until  her  feet  in  the 
light  boots,  and  her  hand  in  the  narrow  kid 
glove,  grow  quite  cold.  Listening  to  the  birds 
of  spring,  singing  sweetly  even  in  the  cold, 
listening  to  the  whistling  of  the  wind  through 
the  porcelain  wreath,  she  sometimes  thinks 
that  she  would  give  half  her  life  if  only  that 
dead  wreath  might  not  be  before  her  eyes. 
The  thought  that  it  is  Olga  Meschersky  who 
has  been  buried  in  that  clay  plunges  her  into 
astonishment  bordering  upon  stupidity:  how 
can  one  associate  the  sixteen-year-old  school- 

74 


Gentle  Breathing 


girl,  who  but  two  or  three  months  ago  was 
so  full  of  life,  charm,  happiness,  with  that 
mound  of  earth  and  that  oak  cross.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  beneath  it  is  the  same  girl  whose 
eyes  shine  out  immortally  from  this  bronze 
medallion,  and  how  can  one  connect  this 
bright  look  with  the  horrible  event  which  is 
associated  now  with  Olga  Meschersky?  But 
in  the  depths  of  her  soul  the  little  woman  is 
happy,  as  are  all  those  who  are  in  love  or  are 
generally  devoted  to  some  passionate  dream. 

The  woman  is  Olga  Meschersky's  class- 
mistress,  a  girl  over  thirty,  who  has  for  long 
been  living  on  some  illusion  and  putting  it  in 
the  place  of  her  actual  life.  At  first  the  illu- 
sion was  her  brother,  a  poor  lieutenant,  in  no 
way  remarkable — her  whole  soul  was  bound 
up  in  him  and  in  his  future,  which,  for  some 
reason,  she  imagined  as  splendid,  and  she 
lived  in  the  curious  expectation  that,  thanks 
to  him,  her  fate  would  transport  her  into  some 

75 


Gentle  Breathing 


fairyland.  Then,  when  he  was  killed  at  Muk- 
den, she  persuaded  herself  that  she,  very 
happily,  is  not  like  others,  that  instead  of 
beauty  and  womanliness  she  has  intellect  and 
higher  interests,  that  she  is  a  worker  for  the 
ideal.  And  now  Olga  Meschersky  is  the  ob- 
ject of  all  her  thoughts,  of  her  admiration  and 
joy.  Every  holiday  she  goes  to  her  grave — 
she  had  formed  the  habit  of  going  to  the  ceme- 
tery after  the  death  of  her  brother — for  hours 
she  never  takes  her  eyes  off  the  oak  cross;  she 
recalls  Olga  Mescher sky's  pale  face  in  the 
coffin  amid  the  flowers,  and  remembers  what 
she  once  overheard :  once  during  the  luncheon 
hour,  while  walking  in  the  school  garden, 
Olga  Meschersky  was  quickly,  quickly  saying 
to  her  favourite  friend,  the  tall  plump  Sub- 
botin: 

"I  have  been  reading  one  of  papa's  books — 
he  has  a  lot  of  funny  old  books — I  read  about 
the  kind  of  beauty  which  woman  ought  to  pos- 

76 


Gentle  Breathing 


,    There's  such  a  lot  written  there,  you 
I  can't  remember  it  all;  well,  of  course, 

>  black  as  boiling  pitch — upon  my  word, 
:'s  what  they  say  there,  boiling  pitch! — 
KOWS  black  as  night,  and  a  tender  flush 
be  complexion,  a  slim  figure,  hands  longer 
i  the  ordinary — little  feet,  a  fairly  large 
ist,  a  regularly  rounded  leg,  a  knee  the 
mr  of  the  inside  of  a  shell,  high  but  sloping 
alders — a  good  deal  of  it  I  have  nearly 
nt  by  heart,  it  is  all  so  true;  but  do  you 
w  what  the  chief  thing  is?    Gentle  breath- 
!    And  I  have  got  it;  you  listen  how  I 
a  the;  isn't  it  gentle?" 

I"ow  the  gentle  breathing  has  again  van- 
id  away  into  the  world,  into  the  cloudy  day, 

>  the  cold  spring  wind.  .  .  . 


77 


KASIMIR  STANISLAVOVITCH 


Translated  by 

S.   S.   KOTELIANSKY 
AND 

LEONARD  WOOLF 


KASIMIR   STANISLAVOVITCH 

ON  the  yellow  card  with  a  nobleman's  coro- 
net the  young  porter  at  the  Hotel  "Versailles" 
somehow  managed  to  read  the  Christian  name 
and  patronymic  "Kasimir  Stanislavovitch."  * 
There  followed  something  still  more  compli- 
cated and  still  more  difficult  to  pronounce. 
The  porter  turned  the  card  this  way  and  that 
way  in  his  hand,  looked  at  the  passport,  which 
the  visitor  had  given  him  with  it,  shrugged 
his  shoulders — none  of  those  who  stayed  at  the 
"Versailles"  gave  their  cards — then  he  threw 
both  on  to  the  table  and  began  again  to  exam- 
ine himself  in  the  silvery,  milky  mirror  which 
hung  above  the  table,  whipping  up  his  thick 
hair  with  a  comb.  He  wore  an  overcoat  and 

•  L  t.    There  was  no  family  name.   The  name  is  Polish,  not 
Russian. 

81 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


shiny  top-boots ;  the  gold  braid  on  his  cap  was 
greasy  with  age — the  hotel  was  a  bad  one. 

Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  left  Kiev  for  Mos- 
cow on  April  8th,  Good  Friday,  on  receiving 
a  telegram  with  the  one  word  "tenth."  Some- 
how or  other  he  managed  to  get  the  money  for 
his  fare,  and  took  his  seat  in  a  second-class 
compartment,  grey  and  dim,  but  really  giving 
him  the  sensation  of  comfort  and  luxury.  The 
train  was  heated,  and  that  railway-carriage 
heat  and  the  smell  of  the  heating  apparatus, 
and  the  sharp  tapping  of  the  little  hammers 
in  it,  reminded  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  of 
other  times.  At  times  it  seemed  to  him  that 
winter  had  returned,  that  in  the  fields  the 
white,  very  white  drifts  of  snow  had  covered 
up  the  yellowish  bristle  of  stubble  and  the 
large  leaden  pools  where  the  wild-duck  swam. 
But  often  the  snow-storm  stopped  suddenly 
and  melted;  the  fields  grew  bright,  and  one 
felt  that  behind  the  clouds  was  much  light, 

82 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


and  the  wet  platforms  of  the  railway-stations 
looked  black,  and  the  rooks  called  from  the 
naked  poplars.  At  each  big  station  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch  went  to  the  refreshment- room 
for  a  drink,  and  returned  to  his  carriage  with 
newspapers  in  his  hands ;  but  he  did  not  read 
them ;  he  only  sat  and  sank  in  the  thick  smoke 
of  his  cigarettes,  which  burned  and  glowed, 
and  to  none  of  his  neighbours — Odessa  Jews 
who  played  cards  all  the  time — did  he  say  a 
single  word.  He  wore  an  autumn  overcoat  of 
which  the  pockets  were  worn,  a  very  old  black 
top-hat,  and  new,  but  heavy,  cheap  boots.  His 
hands,  the  typical  hands  of  an  habitual  drunk- 
ard, and  an  old  inhabitant  of  basements,  shook 
when  he  lit  a  match.  Everything  else  about 
him  spoke  of  poverty  and  drunkenness:  no 
cuffs,  a  dirty  linen  collar,  an  ancient  tie,  an 
inflamed  and  ravaged  face,  bright-blue  watery 
eyes.  His  side-whiskers,  dyed  with  a  bad, 

83 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


brown  dye,  had  an  unnatural  appearance.  He 
looked  tired  and  contemptuous. 

The  train  reached  Moscow  next  day,  not  at 
all  up  to  time ;  it  was  seven  hours  late.  The 
weather  was  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other, 
but  better  and  drier  than  in  Kiev,  with  some- 
thing stirring  in  the  air.  Kasimir  Stanislavo- 
vitch took  a  cab  without  bargaining  with  the 
driver,  and  told  him  to  drive  straight  to  the 
"Versailles."  "I  have  known  that  hotel,  my 
good  fellow,"  he  said,  suddenly  breaking  his 
silence,  "since  my  student  days."  From  the 
"Versailles,"  as  soon  as  his  little  bag,  tied  with 
stout  rope,  had  been  taken  up  to  his  room,  he 
immediately  went  out. 

It  was  nearly  evening:  the  air  was  warm, 
the  black  trees  on  the  boulevards  were  turning 
green;  everywhere  there  were  crowds  of 
people,  cars,  carts.  Moscow  was  trafficking 
and  doing  business,  was  returning  to  the  usual, 
pressing  work,  was  ending  her  holiday,  and 

84 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


unconsciously  welcomed  the  spring.  A  man 
who  has  lived  his  life  and  ruined  it  feels  lonely 
on  a  spring  evening  in  a  strange,  crowded  city. 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  walked  the  whole 
length  of  the  Tverskoy  Boulevard;  he  saw 
once  more  the  cast-iron  figure  of  the  musing 
Poushkin,  the  golden  and  lilac  top  of  the 
Strasnoy  Monastery.  .  .  .  For  about  an  hour 
he  sat  at  the  Cafe  Filippov,  drank  chocolate, 
and  read  old  comic  papers.  Then  he  went  to 
a  cinema,  whose  flaming  signs  shone  from  far 
away  down  the  Tverskaya,  through  the  dark- 
ling twilight.  From  the  cinema  he  drove  to 
a  restaurant  on  the  boulevard  which  he  had 
also  known  in  his  student  days.  He  was 
driven  by  an  old  man,  bent  in  a  bow,  sad, 
gloomy,  deeply  absorbed  in  himself,  in  his  old 
age,  in  his  dark  thoughts.  All  the  way  the 
man  painfully  and  wearily  helped  on  his  lazy 
horse  with  his  whole  being,  murmuring  some- 
thing to  it  all  the  time  and  occasionally  bit- 

85 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


terly  reproaching  it — and  at  last,  when  he 
reached  the  place,  he  allowed  the  load  to  slip 
from  his  shoulders  for  a  moment  and  gave  a 
deep  sigh,  as  he  took  the  money. 

"I  did  not  catch  the  name,  and  thought  you 
meant  'Brague'!"  he  muttered,  turning  his 
horse  slowly;  he  seemed  displeased,  although 
the  "Prague"  was  further  away. 

"I  remember  the  'Prague'  too,  old  fellow," 
answered  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch.  "You  must 
have  been  driving  for  a  long  time  in  Mos- 


cow." 


"Driving?"  the  old  man  said;  "I  have 
been  driving  now  for  fifty-one  years." 

"That  means  that  you  may  have  driven  me 
before,"  said  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch. 

"Perhaps  I  did,"  answered  the  old  man 
dryly.  "There  are  lots  of  people  in  the  world ; 
one  can't  remember  all  of  you." 

Of  the  old  restaurant,  once  known  to  Kasi- 
mir Stanislavovitch,  there  remained  only  the 

86 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


name.  Now  it  was  a  large,  first-class,  though 
vulgar,  restaurant.  Over  the  entrance  burnt 
^an  electric  globe  which  illuminated  with  its 
unpleasant,  heliotrope  light  the  smart,  second- 
rate  cabmen,  impudent,  and  cruel  to  their  lean, 
short-winded  steeds.  In  the  damp  hall  stood 
pots  of  laurels  and  tropical  plants  of  the  kind 
which  one  sees  carried  on  to  the  platforms 
from  weddings  to  funerals  and  vice  versa. 
From  the  porters'  lodge  several  men  rushed 
out  together  to  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch,  and 
all  of  them  had  just  the  same  thick  curl  of  hair 
as  the  porter  at  the  "Versailles."  In  the  large 
greenish  room,  decorated  in  the  rococo  style, 
were  a  multitude  of  broad  mirrors,  and  in  the 
corner  burnt  a  crimson  icon-lamp.  The  room 
was  still  empty,  and  only  a  few  of  the  electric 
lights  were  on.  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  sat 
for  a  long  time  alone,  doing  nothing.  One 
felt  that  behind  the  windows  with  their  white 
blinds  the  long,  spring  evening  had  not  yet 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


grown  dark;  one  heard  from  the  street  the 
thudding  of  hooves ;  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  was  the  monotonous  splash-splash  of  the 
little  fountain  in  an  aquarium  round  which 
gold-fish,  with  their  scales  peeling  off,  lighted 
somehow  from  below,  swam  through  the 
water.  A  waiter  in  white  brought  the  dinner 
things,  bread,  and  a  decanter  of  cold  vodka. 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  began  drinking  the 
vodka,  held  it  in  his  mouth  before  swallowing 
it,  and,  having  swallowed  it,  smelt  the  black 
bread  as  though  with  loathing.  With  a  sud- 
denness which  gave  even  him  a  start,  a  gramo- 
phone began  to  roar  out  through  the  room  a 
mixture  of  Russian  songs,  now  exaggeratedly 
boisterous  and  turbulent,  now  too  tender, 
drawling,  sentimental.  .  .  .  And  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch's  eyes  grew  red  and  tears 
filmed  them  at  that  sweet  and  snuffling  drone 
of  the  machine. 

Then    a    grey-haired,    curly,    black-eyed 
88 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


Georgian  brought  him,  on  a  large  iron  fork, 
a  half-cooked,  smelly  shashlyk,  cut  off  the 
meat  on  to  the  plate  with  a  kind  of  dissolute 
smartness,  and,  with  Asiatic  simplicity,  with 
his  own  hand  sprinkled  it  with  onions,  salt, 
and  rusty  barbery  powder,  while  the  gramo- 
phone roared  out  in  the  empty  hall  a  cake- 
walk,  inciting  one  to  jerks  and  spasms.  Then 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  was  served  with 
cheese,  fruit,  red  wine,  coffee,  mineral  water, 
liqueurs.  .  .  .  The  gramophone  had  long  ago 
grown  silent;  instead  of  it  there  had  been 
playing  on  the  platform  an  orchestra  of  Ger- 
man women  dressed  in  white;  the  lighted  hall, 
continually  filling  up  with  people,  grew  hot, 
became  dim  with  tobacco  smoke  and  heavily 
saturated  with  the  smell  of  food;  waiters 
rushed  about  in  a  whirl;  drunken  people  or- 
dered cigars  which  immediately  made  them 
sick;  the  head-waiters  showed  excessive  offi- 
ciousness,  combined  with  an  intense  realiza- 

89 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


tion  of  their  own  dignity;  in  the  mirrors,  in 
the  watery  gloom  of  their  abysses,  there  was 
more  and  more  chaotically  reflected  some- 
thing huge,  noisy,  complicated.  Several  times 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  went  out  of  the  hot 
hall  into  the  cool  corridors,  into  the  cold  lava- 
tory, where  there  was  a  strange  smell  of  the 
sea ;  he  walked  as  if  on  air,  and,  on  returning 
to  his  table,  again  ordered  wine.  After  mid- 
night, closing  his  eyes  and  drawing  the  fresh 
night  air  through  his  nostrils  into  his  intoxi- 
cated head,  he  raced  in  a  hansom-cab  on  rub- 
ber tires  out  of  the  town  to  a  brothel;  he  saw 
in  the  distance  infinite  chains  of  light,  running 
away  somewhere  down  hill  and  then  up  hill 
again,  but  he  saw  it  just  as  if  it  were  not  he, 
but  some  one  else,  seeing  it.  In  the  brothel  he 
nearly  had  a  fight  with  a  stout  gentleman  who 
attacked  him,  shouting  that  he  was  known  to 
all  thinking  Russia.  Then  he  lay,  dressed,  on 
a  broad  bed,  covered  with  a  satin  quilt,  in  a 

90 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


little  room  half-lighted  from  the  ceiling  by  a 
sky-blue  lantern,  with  a  sickly  smell  of  scented 
soap,  and  with  dresses  hanging  from  a  hook  on 
the  door.  Near  the  bed  stood  a  dish  of  fruit, 
and  the  girl  who  had  been  hired  to  entertain 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch,  silently,  greedily, 
with  relish  ate  a  pear,  cutting  off  slices  with  a 
knife,  and  her  friend,  with  fat  bare  arms, 
dressed  only  in  a  chemise  which  made  her  look 
like  a  little  girl,  was  rapidly  writing  on  the 
toilet-table,  taking  no  notice  of  them.  She 
wrote  and  wept — of  what?  There  are  lots  of 
people  in  the  world;  one  can't  know  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

On  the  tenth  of  April  Kasimir  Stanislavo- 
vitch woke  up  early.  Judging  from  the  start 
with  which  he  opened  his  eyes,  one  could  see 
that  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  idea  that  he 
was  in  Moscow.  He  had  got  back  after  four 
in  the  morning.  He  staggered  down  the  stair- 
case of  the  "Versailles,"  but  without  a  mistake 

91 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


he  went  straight  to  his  room  down  the  long, 
stinking  tunnel  of  a  corridor  which  was 
lighted  only  at  its  entrance  by  a  little  lamp 
smoking  sleepily.  Outside  every  room  stood 
boots  and  shoes — all  of  strangers,  unknown  to 
one  another,  hostile  to  one  another.  Sud- 
denly a  door  opened,  almost  terrifying 
Kasimir  Stanislavovitch;  on  its  threshold 
appeared  an  old  man,  looking  like  a  third- 
rate  actor  acting  "The  Memoirs  of  a  Lunatic," 
and  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  saw  a  lamp 
under  a  green  shade  and  a  room  crowded 
with  things,  the  cave  of  a  lonely  old  lodger, 
with  icons  in  the  corner,  and  innumerable 
cigarette  boxes  piled  one  upon  another  almost 
to  the  ceiling,  near  the  icons.  Was  that  the 
half-crazy  writer  of  the  lives  of  the  saints, 
who  had  lived  in  the  "Versailles"  twenty- 
three  years  ago?  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch's 
dark  room  was  terribly  hot  with  a  malignant 
and  smelly  dryness.  .  .  .  The  light  from  the 

92 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


window  over  the  door  came  faintly  into 
the  darkness.  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  went 
behind  the  screen,  took  the  top-hat  off  his  thin, 
greasy  hair,  threw  his  overcoat  over  the  end 
of  his  bare  bed.  ...  As  soon  as  he  lay  down, 
everything  began  to  turn  round  him,  to  rush 
into  an  abyss,  and  he  fell  asleep  instantly.  In 
his  sleep  all  the  time  he  was  C9nscious  of  the 
smell  of  the  iron  wash-stand  which  stood  close 
to  his  face,  and  he  dreamt  of  a  spring  day,  trees 
in  blossom,  the  hall  of  a  manor  house  and  a 
number  of  people  waiting  anxiously  for  the 
bishop  to  arrive  at  any  moment;  and  all  night 
long  he  was  wearied  and  tormented  with  that 
waiting.  .  .  .  Now  in  the  corridors  of  the 
"Versailles"  people  rang,  ran,  called  to  one 
another.  Behind  the  screen,  through  the 
double,  dusty  window-panes,  the  sun  shone;  it 
was  almost  hot.  .  .  .  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 
took  off  his  jacket,  rang  the  bell,  and  began  to 
wash.  There  came  in  a  quick-eyed  boy,  the 

93 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


page-boy,  with  fox-coloured  hair  on  his  head, 
in  a  frock-coat  and  pink  shirt. 

"A  loaf,  samovar,  and  lemon,"  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch  said  without  looking  at  him. 

"And  tea  and  sugar?"  the  boy  asked  with 
Moscow  sharpness. 

And  a  minute  later  he  rushed  in  with  a  boil- 
ing samovar  in  his  hand,  held  out  level  with 
his  shoulders;  on  the  round  table  in  front  of 
the  sofa  he  quickly  put  a  tray  with  a  glass  and 
a  battered  brass  slop-basin,  and  thumped  the 
samovar  down  on  the  tray.  .  .  .  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch,  while  the  tea  was  drawing, 
mechanically  opened  the  Moscow  Daily, 
which  the  page-boy  had  brought  in  with  the 
samovar.  His  eye  fell  on  a  report  that  yester- 
day an  unknown  man  had  been  picked  up 
unconscious.  .  .  .  "The  victim  was  taken  to 
the  hospital,"  he  read,  and  threw  the  paper 
away.  He  felt  very  bad  and  unsteady.  He 
got  up  and  opened  the  window — it  faced  the 

94 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


yard — and  a  breath  of  freshness  and  of  the  city 
came  to  him;  there  came  to  him  the  melodi- 
ous shouts  of  hawkers,  the  bells  of  horse-trams 
humming  behind  the  house  opposite,  the 
blended  rap-tap  of  the  cars,  the  musical  drone 
of  church-bells.  .  .  .  The  city  had  long  since 
started  its  huge,  noisy  life  in  that  bright,  jolly, 
almost  spring  day.  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 
squeezed  the  lemon  into  a  glass  of  tea  and 
greedily  drank  the  sour,  muddy  liquid ;  then 
he  again  went  behind  the  screen.  The  "Ver- 
sailles" was  quiet.  It  was  pleasant  and  peace- 
ful ;  his  eye  wandered  leisurely  over  the  hotel 
notice  on  the  wall :  "A  stay  of  three  hours  is 
reckoned  as  a  full  day."  A  mouse  scuttled  in 
the  chest  of  drawers,  rolling  about  a  piece 
of  sugar  left  there  by  some  visitor.  .  .  .  Thus 
half  asleep  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  lay  for  a 
long  time  behind  the  screen,  until  the  sun  had 
gone  from  the  room  and  another  freshness  was 

95 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


wafted  in  from  the  window,  the  freshness  of 
evening. 

Then  he  carefully  got  himself  in  order :  he 
undid  his  bag,  changed  his  underclothing, 
took  out  a  cheap  but  clean  handkerchief, 
brushed  his  shiny  frock-coat,  top-hat,  and 
overcoat,  took  out  of  its  torn  pocket  a  crum- 
pled Kiev  newspaper  of  January  15,  and 
threw  it  away  into  the  corner.  .  .  .  Having 
dressed  and  combed  his  whiskers  with  a  dyeing 
comb,  he  counted  his  money — there  remained 
in  his  purse  four  roubles,  seventy  copecks— 
and  went  out.  Exactly  at  six  o'clock  he  was 
outside  a  low,  ancient,  little  church  in  the  Mol- 
chanovka.  Behind  the  church  fence  a  spread- 
ing tree  was  just  breaking  into  green ;  children 
were  playing  there — the  black  stocking  of  one 
thin  little  girl,  jumping  over  a  rope,  was  con- 
tinually coming  down — and  he  sat  there  on  a 
bench  among  perambulators  with  sleeping 
babies  and  nurses  in  Russian  costumes.  Spar- 

96 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


rows  prattled  over  all  the  tree;  the  air  was 
soft,  all  but  summer — even  the  dust  smelt  of 
summer — the  sky  above  the  sunset  behind  the 
houses  melted  into  a  gentle  gold,  and  one  felt 
that  once  more  there  was  somewhere  in  the 
world  joy,  youth,  happiness.  In  the  church 
the  chandeliers  were  already  burning,  and 
there  stood  the  pulpit  and  in  front  of  the  pul- 
pit was  spread  a  little  carpet.  Kasimir  Stani- 
slavovitch cautiously  took  off  his  top-hat,  try- 
ing not  to  untidy  his  hair,  and  entered  the 
church  nervously;  he  went  into  a  corner,  but 
a  corner  from  which  he  could  see  the  couple 
to  be  married.  He  looked  at  the  painted  vault, 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  cupola,  and  his  every 
movement  and  every  gasp  echoed  loudly 
through  the  silence.  The  church  shone  with 
gold ;  the  candles  sputtered  expectantly.  And 
now  the  priests  and  choir  began  to  enter,  cross- 
ing themselves  with  the  carelessness  which 
comes  of  habit,  then  old  women,  children, 

97 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


smart  wedding  guests,  and  worried  stewards. 
A  noise  was  heard  in  the  porch,  the  crunching 
wheels  of  the  carriage,  and  every  one  turned 
their  heads  towards  the  entrance,  and  the 
hymn  burst  out  "Come,  my  dovel"  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch  became  deadly  pale,  as  his 
heart  beat,  and  unconsciously  he  took  a  step 
forward.  And  close  by  him  there  passed — her 
veil  touching  him,  and  a  breath  of  lily-of-the- 
valley — she  who  did  not  know  even  of  his 
existence  in  the  world;  she  passed,  bending 
her  charming  head,  all  flowers  and  transparent 
gauze,  all  snow-white  and  innocent,  happy 
and  timid,  like  a  princess  going  to  her  first 
communion.  .  .  .  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 
hardly  saw  the  bridegroom  who  came  to  meet 
her,  a  rather  small,  broad-shouldered  man 
with  yellow,  close-cropped  hair.  During  the 
whole  ceremony  only  one  thing  was  before  his 
eyes:  the  bent  head,  in  the  flowers  and  the 
veil,  and  the  little  hand  trembling  as  it  held 

98 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


a  burning  candle  tied  with  a  white  ribbon  in  a 
bow.  .  .  . 

About  ten  o'clock  he  was  back  again  in  the 
hotel.  All  his  overcoat  smelt  of  the  spring  air. 
After  coming  out  of  the  church,  he  had  seen, 
near  the  porch,  the  car  lined  with  white  satin, 
and  its  window  reflecting  the  sunset,  and  be- 
hind the  window  there  flashed  on  him  for  the 
last  time  the  face  of  her  who  was  being  carried 
away  from  him  for  ever.  After  that  he  had 
wandered  about  in  little  streets,  and  had  come 
out  on  the  Novensky  Boulevard.  .  .  .  Now 
slowly  and  with  trembling  hands  he  took  off 
his  overcoat,  put  on  the  table  a  paper  bag  con- 
taining two  green  cucumbers  which  for  some 
reason  he  had  bought  at  a  hawker's  stall. 
They  too  smelt  of  spring  even  through  the 
paper,  and  spring-like  through  the  upper  pane 
of  the  window  the  April  moon  shone  silvery 
high  up  in  the  not  yet  darkened  sky.  Kasimir 
Stanislavovitch  lit  a  candle,  sadly  illuminat- 

99 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


ing  his  empty,  casual  home,  and  sat  down  on 
the  sofa,  feeling  on  his  face  the  freshness  of 
evening.  .  .  .  Thus  he  sat  for  a  long  time. 
He  did  not  ring  the  bell,  gave  no  orders, 
locked  himself  in — all  this  seemed  suspicious 
to  the  porter  who  had  seen  him  enter  his  room 
with  his  shuffling  feet  and  taking  the  key  out 
of  the  door  in  order  to  lock  himself  in  from 
the  inside.  Several  times  the  porter  stole  up 
on  tiptoe  to  the  door  and  looked  through  the 
key-hole:  Kasimir  Stanislavovitch  was  sitting 
on  the  sofa,  trembling  and  wiping  his  face 
with  a  handkerchief,  and  weeping  so  bitterly, 
so  copiously  that  the  brown  dye  came  off,  and 
was  smeared  over  his  face. 

At  night  he  tore  the  cord  off  the  blind,  and, 
seeing  nothing  through  his  tears,  began  to 
fasten  it  to  the  hook  of  the  clothes-peg.  But 
the  guttering  candle  flickered,  and  terrible 
dark  waves  swam  and  flickered  over  the 
locked  room :  he  was  old,  weak — and  he  him- 

IOO 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


self  was  well  aware  of  it.  ...  No,  it  was 
not  in  his  power  to  die  by  his  own  hand! 

In  the  morning  he  started  for  the  railway 
station  about  three  hours  before  the  train  left. 
At  the  station  he  quietly  walked  about  among 
the  passengers,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground 
and  tear-stained;  and  he  would  stop  unexpect- 
edly now  before  one  and  now  before  another, 
and  in  a  low  voice,  evenly  but  without  expres- 
sion, he  would  say  rather  quickly: 

"For  God's  sake  ...  I  am  in  a  desperate 
position.  .  .  .  My  fare  to  Briansk.  ...  If 
only  a  few  copecks.  ..." 

And  some  passengers,  trying  not  to  look  at 
his  top-hat,  at  the  worn  velvet  collar  of  his 
overcoat,  at  the  dreadful  face  with  the  faded 
violet  whiskers,  hurriedly,  and  with  confusion, 
gave  him  something. 

And  then,  rushing  out  of  the  station  on  to 
the  platform,  he  got  mixed  in  the  crowd  and 
disappeared  into  it,  while  in  the  "Versailles," 

IOI 


Kasimir  Stanislavovitch 


in  the  room  which  for  two  days  had  as  it  were 
belonged  to  him,  they  carried  out  the  slop- 
pail,  opened  the  windows  to  the  April  sun  and 
to  the  fresh  air,  noisily  moved  the  furniture, 
swept  up  and  threw  out  the  dust — and  with 
the  dust  there  fell  under  the  table,  under  the 
table  cloth  which  slid  on  to  the  floor,  his  torn 
note,  which  he  had  forgotten  with  the  cucum- 
bers: 

"I  beg  that  no  one  be  accused  of  my  death. 
I  was  at  the  wedding  of  my  only  daughter 
who  .  .  " 


102 


SON 

Translated  by 

S.   S.  KOTELIANSKY 
AND 

LEONARD  WOOLF 


SON 

MADAME  MARAUD  was  born  and  grew  up 
in  Lausanne,  in  a  strict,  honest,  industrious 
family.  She  did  not  marry  young,  but  she 
married  for  love.  In  March,  1876,  among 
the  passengers  on  an  old  French  ship,  the 
Auvergne,  sailing  from  Marseilles  to  Italy, 
was  the  newly  married  couple.  The  weather 
was  calm  and  fresh ;  the  silvery  mirror  of  the 
sea  appeared  and  disappeared  in  the  mists 
of  the  spring  horizon.  The  newly  married 
couple  never  left  the  deck.  Every  one  liked 
them,  every  one  looked  at  their  happiness  with 
friendly  smiles;  his  happiness  showed  itself 
in  the  energy  and  keenness  of  his  glance,  in  a 
need  for  movement,  in  the  animation  of  his 
welcome  to  those  around  him;  hers  showed 

105 


Son 

itself  in  the  joy  and  interest  with  which  she 
took  in  each  detail.  .  .  .  The  newly  married 
couple  were  the  Marauds. 

He  was  about  ten  years  her  elder;  he  was 
not  tall,  with  a  swarthy  face  and  curly  hair; 
his  hand  was  dry  and  his  voice  melodious. 
One  felt  in  her  the  presence  of  some  other, 
non-Latin  blood;  she  was  over  medium 
height,  although  her  figure  was  charming,  and 
she  had  dark  hair  and  blue-grey  eyes.  After 
touching  at  Naples,  Palermo,  and  Tunis,  they 
arrived  at  the  Algerian  town  of  Constantine, 
where  M.  Maraud  had  obtained  a  rather  good 
post.  And  their  life  in  Constantine,  for  the 
fourteen  years  since  that  happy  spring,  gave 
them  everything  with  which  people  are  nor- 
mally satisfied:  wealth,  family  happiness, 
healthy  and  beautiful  children. 

During  the  fourteen  years  the  Marauds  had 
greatly  changed  in  appearance.  He  became 
as  dark  as  an  Arab ;  from  his  work,  from  trav- 

106 


Son 

elling,  from  tobacco  and  the  sun,  he  had 
grown  grey  and  dried  up — many  people  mis- 
took him  for  a  native  of  Algeria.  And  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  recognize 
in  her  the  woman  who  sailed  once  in  the 
Auvergne:  at  that  time  there  was  even  in 
the  boots  which  she  put  outside  her  door  at 
night  the  charm  of  youth;  now  there  was 
silver  in  her  hair,  her  skin  had  become  more 
transparent  and  more  of  a  golden  colour,  her 
hands  were  thinner  and  in  her  care  of  them, 
of  her  linen,  and  of  her  clothes  she  already 
showed  a  certain  excessive  tidiness.  Their  re- 
lations had  certainly  changed  too,  although  no 
one  could  say  for  the  worse.  They  each  lived 
their  own  life:  his  time  was  filled  with  work 
—he  remained  the  same  passionate,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  sober  man  that  he  had  been  before; 
her  time  was  rilled  up  with  looking  after  him 
and  their  children,  two  pretty  girls,  of  whom 
the  elder  was  almost  a  young  lady :  and  every 

107 


Son 

one  with  one  voice  agreed  that  in  all  Constan- 
tine  there  was  no  better  hostess,  no  better 
mother,  no  more  charming  companion  in  the 
drawing-room  than  Madame  Maraud. 

Their  house  stood  in  a  quiet,  clean  part  of 
the  town.  From  the  front  rooms  on  the  second 
floor,  which  were  always  half  dark  with  the 
blinds  drawn  down,  one  saw  Constantine, 
known  the  world  over  for  its  picturesqueness. 
On  steep  rocks  stands  the  ancient  Arab  fortress 
which  has  become  a  French  city.  The  win- 
dows of  the  living-rooms  looked  into  a  garden 
where  in  perpetual  heat  and  sunshine  slum- 
bered the  evergreen  eucalyptuses,  the  syca- 
mores, and  palms  behind  high  walls.  The 
master  was  frequently  away  on  business,  ancl 
the  lady  led  the  secluded  existence  to  which 
the  wives  of  Europeans  are  doomed  in  the 
colonies.  On  Sundays  she  always  went  to 
church.  On  weekdays  she  rarely  went  out, 
and  she  visited  only  a  small  and  select  circle. 

108 


Son 

She  read,  did  needle-work,  talked  or  did  les- 
sons with  the  children;  sometimes  taking  her 
younger  daughter,  the  black-eyed  Marie,  on 
her  knee,  she  would  play  the  piano  with  one 
hand  and  sing  old  French  songs,  in  order  to 
while  away  the  long  African  day,  while  the 
great  breath  of  hot  wind  blew  in  through  the 
open  windows  from  the  garden.  .  .  .  Con- 
stantine,  with  all  its  shutters  closed  and 
scorched  pitilessly  by  the  sun,  seemed  at  such 
hours  a  dead  city:  only  the  birds  called  be- 
hind the  garden  wall,  and  from  the  hills 
behind  the  town  came  the  dreary  sound  of 
pipes,  filled  with  the  melancholy  of  colonial 
countries,  and  at  times  there  the  dull  thud  of 
guns  shook  the  earth,  and  you  could  see  the 
flashing  of  the  white  helmets  of  soldiers. 

The  days  in  Constantine  passed  monoto- 
nously, but  no  one  noticed  that  Madame 
Maraud  minded  that.  In  her  pure,  refined 
nature  there  was  no  trace  of  abnormal  sensi- 

109 


Son 

tiveness  or  excessive  nervousness.  Her  health 
could  not  be  called  robust,  but  it  gave  no  cause 
of  anxiety  to  M.  Maraud.  Only  one  incident 
once  astonished  him :  in  Tunis  once,  an  Arab 
juggler  so  quickly  and  completely  hypnotized 
her  that  it  was  only  with  difficulty  that  she 
could  be  brought  to.  But  this  happened  at 
the  time  of  their  arrival  from  France;  she  had 
never  since  experienced  so  sudden  a  loss  of 
will-power,  such  a  morbid  suggestibility.  And 
M.  Maraud  was  happy,  untroubled,  con- 
vinced that  her  soul  was  tranquil  and  open  to 
him.  And  it  was  so,  even  in  the  last,  the  four- 
teenth year  of  their  married  life.  But  then 
there  appeared  in  Constantine  Emile  Du- 
Buis. 

Emile  Du-Buis,  the  son  of  Madame  Bon- 
nay,  an  old  and  good  friend  of  M.  Maraud, 
was  only  nineteen.  Emile  was  the  son  of  her 
first  husband  and  had  grown  up  in  Paris, 
where  he  studied  law,  but  he  spent  most  of  his 

no 


Son 

time  in  writing  poems,  intelligible  only  to 
himself;  he  was  attached  to  the  school  of 
"Seekers,"  which  has  now  ceased  to  exist. 
Madame  Bonnay,  the  widow  of  an  engineer, 
also  had  a  daughter,  Elise.  In  May,  1889, 
Elise  was  just  going  to  be  married,  when  she 
fell  ill  and  died  a  few  days  before  her  wed- 
ding, and  Emile,  who  had  never  been  in  Con- 
stantine,  came  to  the  funeral.  It  can  be  easily 
understood  how  that  death  moved  Madame 
Maraud,  the  death  of  a  girl  already  trying  on 
her  wedding  dress;  it  is  also  known  how 
quickly  in  such  circumstances  an  intimacy 
springs  up  between  people  who  have  hardly 
met  before.  Besides,  to  Madame  Maraud 
Emile  was,  indeed,  only  a  boy.  Soon  after  the 
funeral  Madame  Bonnay  went  for  the  sum- 
mer to  stay  with  her  relations  in  France. 
Emile  remained  in  Constantine,  in  a  suburban 
villa  which  belonged  to  his  late  step-father, 
the  villa  "Hashim,"  as  it  was  called  in  the 

in 


town,  and  he  began  coming  nearly  every  day 
to  the  Marauds.  Whatever  he  was,  whatever 
he  pretended  to  be,  he  was  still  very  young, 
very  sensitive,  and  he  needed  people  to  whom 
he  could  attach  himself  for  a  time.  "And  isn't 
it  strange?"  some  said;  "Madame  Maraud  has 
become  unrecognizable!  How  lively  she  has 
become,  and  how  her  looks  have  improved!" 
However,  these  insinuations  were  ground- 
less. At  first  there  was  only  this,  that  her  life 
had  become  a  little  bit  jollier,  and  her  girls 
too  had  become  more  playful  and  coquettish, 
since  Emile,  every  now  and  then  forgetting  his 
sorrow  and  the  poison  with  which,  as  he 
thought,  the  fin  de  siecle  had  infected  him, 
would  for  hours  at  a  time  play  with  Marie 
and  Louise  as  if  he  were  their  age.  It  is  true 
that  he  was  all  the  same  a  man,  a  Parisian,  and 
not  altogether  an  ordinary  man.  He  had 
already  taken  part  in  that  life,  inaccessible  to 
ordinary  mortals,  which  Parisian  writers  live; 

112 


Son 

he  often  read  aloud,  with  a  hypnotic  expres- 
siveness, strange  but  sonorous  poems;  and, 
peihaps  it  was  entirely  owing  to  him  that 
Madame  Maraud's  walk  had  become  lighter 
and  quicker,  her  dress  at  home  imperceptibly 
smarter,  the  tones  of  her  voice  more  tender 
and  playful.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  in  her 
SOIL  a  drop  of  purely  feminine  pleasure  that 
hen  was  a  man  to  whom  she  could  give  her 
small  commands,  with  whom  she  could  talk, 
hal:  seriously  and  half  jokingly  as  a  mentor, 
with  that  freedom  which  their  difference  in 
age  so  naturally  allowed — a  man  who  was  so 
devoted  to  her  whole  household,  in  which, 
however,  the  first  person — this,  of  course, 
very  soon  became  clear — was  for  him,  never- 
theless, she  herself.  But  how  common  all  that 
is!  And  the  chief  thing  was  that  often  what 
she  really  felt  for  him  was  only  pity. 

He  honestly  thought  himself  a  born  poet, 
and  he  wished  outwardly,  too,  to  look  like  a 

"3 


Son 

poet;  his  long  hair  was  brushed  back  witn 
artistic  modesty;  his  hair  was  fine,  brown,  aid 
suited  his  pale  face  just  as  did  his  bhck 
clothes ;  but  the  pallor  was  too  bloodless,  vith 
a  yellow  tinge  in  it;  his  eyes  were  always  fhin- 
ing,  but  the  tired  look  in  his  face  made  them 
seem  feverish ;  and  so  flat  and  narrow  was  his 
chest,  so  thin  his  legs  and  hands,  that  one  felt 
a  little  uncomfortable  when  one  saw  him  get 
very  excited  and  run  in  the  street  or  garden, 
with  his  body  pushed  forward  a  little,  as 
though  he  were  gliding,  in  order  to  hide  his 
defect,  that  he  had  one  leg  shorter  than  the 
other.  In  company  he  was  apt  to  be  unpleas- 
ant, haughty,  trying  to  appear  mysterious, 
negligent,  at  times  elegantly  dashing,  at  times 
contemptuously  absent-minded,  in  everything 
independent;  but  too  often  he  could  not  carry 
it  through  to  the  end,  he  became  confused  and 
began  to  talk  hurriedly  with  naive  frankness. 
And,  of  course,  he  was  not  very  long  able  to 

114 


Son 

hide  his  feelings,  to  maintain  the  pose  of  not 
believing  in  love  or  in  happiness  on  earth. 
He  had  already  begun  to  bore  his  host  by  his 
visits;  every  day  he  would  bring  from  his 
villa  bouquets  of  the  rarest  flowers,  and  he 
would  sit  from  morn  to  night  reading  poems 
which  were  more  and  more  unintelligible — 
the  children  often  heard  him  beseeching  some 
one  that  they  should  die  together — while  he 
spent  his  nights  in  the  native  quarter,  in  dens 
where  Arabs,  wrapped  in  dirty  white  robes, 
greedily  watch  the  danse  de  venire,  and  drank 
fiery  liqueurs.  ...  In  a  word  it  took  less  than 
six  weeks  for  his  passion  to  change  into  God 
knows  what 

His  nerves  gave  way  completely.  Once  he 
sat  for  nearly  the  whole  day  in  silence;  then 
he  got  up,  bowed,  took  his  hat  and  went  out — 
and  half  an  hour  later  he  was  carried  in  from 
the  street  in  a  terrible  state;  he  was  in  hys- 
terics and  he  wept  so  passionately  that  he  terri- 

"5 


Son 

fied  the  children  and  servants.  But  Madame 
Maraud,  it  seemed,  did  not  attach  any  particu- 
lar importance  to  this  delirium.  She  herself 
tried  to  help  him  recover  himself,  quickly  un- 
did his  tie,  told  him  to  be  a  man,  and  she  only 
smiled  when  he,  without  any  restraint  in  her 
husband's  presence,  caught  her  hands  and  cov- 
ered them  with  kisses  and  vowed  devotion  to 
her.  But  an  end  had  to  be  put  to  all  this. 
When,  a  few  days  after  this  outbreak,  Emile, 
whom  the  children  had  greatly  missed,  arrived 
calm,  but  looking  like  some  one  who  has  been 
through  a  serious  illness,  Madame  Maraud 
gently  told  him  everything  which  is  always 
said  on  such  occasions. 

"My  friend,  you  are  like  a  son  to  me,"  she 
said  to  him,  for  the  first  time  uttering  the  word 
son,  and,  indeed,  almost  feeling  a  maternal 
affection.  "Don't  put  me  in  a  ridiculous  and 
painful  position." 

"But  I  swear  to  you,  you  are  mistaken!" 
116 


Son 

he  exclaimed,  with  passionate  sincerity.  "I 
am  only  devoted  to  you.  I  only  want  to  see 
you,  nothing  else!" 

And  suddenly  he  fell  on  his  knees — they 
were  in  the  garden,  on  a  quiet,  hot,  dark 
evening — impetuously  embraced  her  knees, 
nearly  fainting  with  passion.  And  looking  at 
his  hair,  at  his  thin  white  neck,  she  thought 
with  pain  and  ecstasy: 

"Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  might  have  had  such  a  son, 
almost  his  age!" 

However,  from  that  time  until  he  left  for 
France  he  behaved  reasonably.  This  essen- 
tially was  a  bad  sign,  for  it  might  mean  that 
his  passion  had  become  deeper.  But  out- 
wardly everything  had  changed  for  the  better 
— only  once  did  he  break  down.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday  after  dinner  at  which  several  strangers 
1  were  present,  and  he,  careless  of  whether  they 
noticed  it,  said  to  her : 

"I  beg  you  to  spare  me  a  minute." 
117 


Son 

She  got  up  and  followed  him  into  die 
empty,  half  -dark  drawing-room.  He  went  to 
the  window  through  which  die  evening  light 
fefl  m  broad  shafts,  and,  Innfci^g  «tr«gti»  S^m 

r.z:  lire    -i  : 

"To-day  is  the  day  on  which  my  father  died. 
I  love  your 

She  turned  and  was  about  to  leave  him. 

h.Ti-i-.f    he  hinLj  :illri  :::e:  he-: 
"Forgive  me,  it  is  for  die  first  and  last 


she  heard  no  fuilhei  confessi 


from  him.  "I  was  fascinated  by  her  agita- 
tion," he  noted  that  night  in  his  diary  in  his 
and  pompous  style;  UI  swore  never 


again  to  disturb  her  peace  of  mind  :  am  I  not 
blessed  enough  without  that?"  He  continued 
to  come  to  town  —  he  only  slept  at  the  villa 
Hasfnm  —  and  he  behaved  erratically,  bat 
always  more  or  kss  propcilv.  At  times  he 
was,  as  before,  unnaturally  playful  and  naive, 

118 


Son 

running  about  with  the  children  in  the  gar- 
den;  bat  more  often  he  sat  with  her  and 
"sipped  of  her  presence,"  read  newspapers 
and  novels  to  her,  and  "was  happy  in  her 
Hff^fag  to  him."  'The  children  were  not  in 
the  way,"  he  wrote  of  those  days,  "their  voices, 
laughter,  comings  and  goings,  their  very 
beings  acted  like  the  subtlest  conductors  for 
our  feelings;  thanks  to  them,  the  charm  of 
those  feelings  was  intensified;  we  talked  about 
the  most  everyday  matters,  but  something  else 
sounded  through  what  we  said:  our  happi- 
ness; yes,  yes,  she,  too,  was  happy — I  main- 
tain that!  She  loved  me  to  read  poetry;  in 
the  evenings  from  the  balcony  we  looked  down 
upon  Constantino  lying  at  our  feet  in  the  blu- 
ish moonlight.  .  .  ."  At  last,  in  August 
Madame  Maraud  insisted  that  he  should  go 
away,  return  to  his  work;  and  during  his  jour- 
ney he  wrote:  "I'm  going  awayl  I  am  going 
away,  poisoned  by  the  bitter  sweet  of  parting  I 

119 


Son 

She  gave  me  a  remembrance,  a  velvet  ribbon 
which  she  wore  round  her  neck  as  a  young 
girl.  At  the  last  moment  she  blessed  me,  and 
I  saw  tears  shine  in  her  eyes,  when  she  said : 
'Good-bye,  my  dear  son.' ' 

Was  he  right  in  thinking  that  Madame 
Maraud  was  also  happy  in  August?  No  one 
knows.  But  that  his  leaving  was  painful  to 
her — there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  That  word 
"son,"  which  had  often  troubled  her  before, 
now  had  a  sound  for  her  which  she  could  not 
bear  to  hear.  Formerly  when  friends  met  her 
on  the  way  to  church,  and  said  to  her  jokingly : 
"What  have  you  to  pray  for,  Madame 
Maraud?  You  are  already  without  sin  and 
without  troubles!"  she  more  than  once 
answered  with  a  sad  smile:  "I  complain  to 
God  that  he  has  not  given  me  a  son."  Now 
the  thought  of  a  son  never  left  her,  the  thought 
of  the  happiness  that  he  would  constantly  give 
her  by  his  mere  existence  in  the  world.  And 

120 


Son 

once,  soon  after  Emile's  departure,  she  said  to 
her  husband : 

"Now  I  understand  it  all.  I  now  believe 
firmly  that  every  mother  ought  to  have  a  son, 
that  every  mother  who  has  no  son,  if  she  look 
into  her  own  heart  and  examine  her  whole 
life,  will  realize  that  she  is  unhappy.  You 
are  a  man  and  cannot  feel  that,  but  it  is  so.  ... 
Oh,  how  tenderly,  passionately  a  woman  can 
love  a  son!" 

She  was  very  affectionate  to  her  husband 
during  that  autumn.  It  would  happen  some- 
times that,  sitting  alone  with  him,  she  would 
suddenly  say  bashfully: 

"Listen,  Hector.  ...  I  am  ashamed  to 
mention  it  again  to  you,  but  still  ...  do  you 
ever  think  of  March,  '76?  Ah,  if  we  had 
had  a  sonl" 

"All  this  troubled  me  a  good  deal,"  M. 
Maraud  said  later,  "and  it  troubled  me  the 
more  because  she  began  to  get  thin  and  out 

121 


Son 

of  health.  She  grew  feeble,  became  more  and 
more  silent  and  gentle.  She  went  out  to  our 
friends  more  and  more  rarely,  she  avoided 
going  to  town  unless  compelled.  ...  I  have 
no  doubt  that  some  terrible,  incomprehensible 
disease  had  been  gradually  getting  hold  of 
her,  body  and  soul!"  And  the  governess 
added  mat  that  autumn,  Madame  Maraud,  if 
she  went  out,  invariably  put  on  a  thick  white 
veil,  which  she  had  never  done  before,  and 
that,  on  coming  home,  she  would  immediately 
take  it  off  in  front  of  the  glass  and  would  care- 
fully examine  her  tired  face.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  explain  what  had  been  going  on  in  her 
soul  during  that  period.  But  did  she  desire  to 
see  Emile?  Did  he  write  to  her  and  did  she 
answer  him?  He  produced  before  the  court 
two  telegrams  which  he  alleged  she  sent  him 
in  reply  to  letters  of  his.  One  was  dated 
November  10:  "You  are  driving  me  mad. 
Be  calm.  Send  me  a  message  immediately." 

122 


Son 

The  other  of  December  23:  "No,  no,  don't 
come,  I  implore  you.  Think  of  me,  love  me 
as  a  mother."  But,  of  course,  the  truth  that 
the  telegrams  had  been  sent  by  her  could  not 
be  proved.  Only  this  is  certain,  that  from 
September  to  January  the  life  which  Madame 
Maraud  lived  was  miserable,  agitated,  morbid. 
The  late  autumn  of  that  year  in  Constantine 
was  cold  and  rainy.  Then,  as  is  always  the 
case  in  Algeria,  there  suddenly  came  a  delight- 
ful spring.  And  a  liveliness  began  again  to 
return  to  Madame  Maraud,  that  happy,  subtle 
intoxication  which  people  who  have  already 
lived  through  their  youth  feel  at  the  blossom- 
ing of  spring.  She  began  to  go  out  again ;  she 
drove  out  a  good  deal  with  the  children  and 
used  to  take  them  to  the  deserted  garden  of 
the  villa  Hashim;  she  intended  to  go  to 
Algiers,  and  to  show  the  children  Blida,  near 
which  there  is  in  the  hills  a  wooded  gorge,  the 
favourite  haunt  of  monkeys.  And  so  it  went 

"3 


Son 

on  until  January  17  of  the  year  1893. 
January  17  she  woke  up  with  a  feeling  of 
gentle  happiness  which,  it  seemed,  had  agi- 
tated her  the  whole  night.  Her  husband  was 
away  on  business,  and  in  his  absence  she  slept 
alone  in  the  large  room;  the  blinds  and  cur- 
tains made  it  almost  dark.  Still  from  the  pale 
bluishness  which  filtered  in  one  could  see  that 
it  was  very  early.  And,  indeed,  the  little 
watch  on  the  night  table  showed  that  it  was  six 
o'clock.  She  felt  with  delight  the  morning 
freshness  coming  from  the  garden,  and,  wrap- 
ping the  light  blanket  round  her,  turned  to 
the  wall.  .  .  .  "Why  am  I  so  happy?"  she 
thought  as  she  fell  asleep.  And  in  vague  and 
beautiful  visions  she  saw  scenes  in  Italy  and 
Sicily,  scenes  of  that  far-off  spring  when  she 
sailed  in  a  cabin,  with  its  windows  opening  on 
to  the  deck  and  the  cold  silvery  sea,  with  door- 
hangings  which  time  had  worn  and  faded  to  a 
rusty  silver  colour,  with  its  threshold  of  brass 

124 


Son 

shining  from  perpetual  polishings.  .  .  .  Then 
she  saw  boundless  bays,  lagoons,  low  shores, 
an  Arab  city  all  white  with  flat  roofs  and  be- 
hind it  misty  blue  hills  and  mountains.  It  was 
Tunis,  where  she  had  only  once  been,  that 
spring  when  she  was  in  Naples,  Palermo.  .  .  . 
But  then,  as  though  the  chill  of  a  wave  had 
passed  over  her,  with  a  start,  she  opened  her 
eyes.  It  was  past  eight;  she  heard  the  voices 
of  the  children  and  the  governess.  She  got  up, 
put  on  a  wrap,  and,  going  out  on  to  the  bal- 
cony, went  down  to  the  garden  and  sat  in  the 
rocking-chair.  It  stood  on  the  sand  by  a  round 
table  under  a  blossoming  mimosa  tree  which 
made  a  golden  arbour  heavily  scented  in  the 
sun.  The  maid  brought  her  coffee.  She  again 
began  to  think  of  Tunis,  and  she  remembered 
the  strange  thing  which  had  happened  to  her 
there,  the  sweet  terror  and  happy  silence  of 
the  moment  before  death  which  she  had  ex- 
perienced in  that  pale-blue  city  in  a  warm, 

125 


Son 

pink  twilight,  half  lying  in  a  rocking-chair  on 
the  hotel  roof,  faintly  seeing  the  dark  face  of 
the  Arab  hypnotizer  and  juggler,  who  squat- 
ted in  front  of  her  and  sent  her  to  sleep  by  his 
hardly  audible,  monotonous  melodies  and  the 
slow  movements  of  his  thin  hands.  And  sud- 
denly, as  she  was  thinking  and  was  looking 
mechanically  with  wide-open  eyes  at  the 
bright  silver  spark  which  shone  in  the  sun- 
light from  the  spoon  in  the  glass  of  water,  she 
lost  consciousness.  .  .  .  When  with  a  start  she 
opened  her  eyes  again,  Emile  was  standing 
over  her. 

All  that  followed  after  that  unexpected 
meeting  is  known  from  the  words  of  Emile 
himself,  from  his  story,  from  his  answers  in 
cross-examination.  "Yes,  I  came  to  Constan- 
tine  out  of  the  blue!"  he  said;  "I  came  because 
I  felt  that  the  Powers  of  Heaven  themselves 
could  not  stop  me.  In  the  morning  of  January 
17  straight  from  the  railway  station,  without 

126 


Son 

any  warning,  I  arrived  at  M.  Maraud's  house 
and  ran  into  the  garden.  I  was  overwhelmed 
by  what  I  saw,  but  no  sooner  had  I  taken  a 
step  forward  than  she  woke  up.  She  seemed 
to  be  amazed  both  by  the  unexpectedness  of 
my  appearance  and  by  what  had  been  happen- 
ing to  her,  but  she  uttered  no  cry.  She  looked 
at  me  like  a  person  who  has  just  woken  up 
from  a  sound  sleep,  and  then  she  got  up, 
arranging  her  hair. 

"It  is  just  what  I  anticipated,"  she  said 
without  expression;  "you  did  not  obey  me  I" 

And  with  a  characteristic  movement  she 
folded  the  wrap  round  her  bosom,  and  taking 
my  head  in  her  two  hands  kissed  me  twice  on 
the  forehead. 

I  was  bewildered  with  passionate  ecstasy, 
but  she  quietly  pushed  me  from  her  and  said : 

"Come,  I  am  not  dressed;  I'll  be  back 
presently;  go  to  the  children." 

"But,  for  the  love  of  God,  what  was  the 
127 


Son 

matter  with  you  just  now?"  I  asked,  following 
her  on  to  the  balcony. 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing,  a  slight  faintness;  I 
had  been  looking  at  the  shining  spoon,"  she 
answered,  regaining  control  of  herself,  and 
beginning  to  speak  with  animation.  "But 
what  have  you  done,  what  have  you  done!" 

I  could  not  find  the  children  anywhere;  it 
was  empty  and  quiet  in  the  house.  I  sat  in  the 
dining-room,  and  heard  her  suddenly  begin  to 
sing  in  a  distant  room  in  a  strong,  melodious 
voice,  but  I  did  not  understand  then  the  full 
horror  of  that  singing,  because  I  was  trem- 
bling with  nervousness.  I  had  not  slept  at  all 
all  night;  I  had  counted  the  minutes  while 
the  train  was  hurrying  me  to  Constantine;  I 
jumped  into  the  first  carriage  I  met,  raced  out 
of  the  station;  I  did  not  expect  as  I  came  to 
the  town.  ...  I  knew  I,  too,  had  a  forebod- 
ing that  my  coming  would  be  fatal  to  us ;  but 
still  what  I  saw  in  the  garden,  that  mystical 

128 


Son 

meeting,  and  that  sudden  change  in  her  atti- 
tude towards  me,  I  could  not  expect  that!  In 
ten  minutes  she  came  down  with  her  hair 
dressed,  in  a  light  grey  dress  with  a  shade  of 
blue  in  it. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  while  I  kissed  her  hand,  "I 
forgot  that  to-day  is  Sunday;  the  children  are 
at  church,  and  I  overslept  .  .  .  After  church 
the  children  will  go  to  the  pine-wood — have 
you  ever  been  there?" 

And,  without  waiting  for  my  answer,  she 
rang  the  bell,  and  told  them  to  bring  me  coffee. 
She  began  to  look  fixedly  at  me,  and,  without 
listening  to  my  replies,  to  ask  me  how  I  lived, 
and  what  I  was  doing;  she  began  to  speak  of 
herself,  of  how,  after  two  or  three  very  bad 
months  during  which  she  had  become  "terri- 
bly old" — those  words  were  uttered  with  an 
imperceptible  smile — she  now  felt  so  well,  as 
young,  as  never  before.  ...  I  answered, 
listened,  but  a  great  deal  I  did  not  understand. 

129 


Son 

Both  of  us  said  meaningless  things;  my  hands 
grew  cold  at  the  thought  of  another  terrible 
and  inevitable  hour.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  felt 
as  though  I  were  struck  by  lightning  when  she 
said  "I  have  grown  old.  ..."  I  suddenly 
noticed  that  she  was  right;  in  the  thinness  of 
her  hands,  and  faded,  though  youthful,  face, 
in  the  dryness  of  some  of  the  outlines  of  her 
figure,  I  noticed  the  first  signs  of  that  which, 
painfully  and  somehow  awkwardly — but  still 
more  painfully — makes  one's  heart  contract  at 
the  sight  of  an  ageing  woman.  Oh  yes,  how 
quickly  and  sharply  she  had  changed,  I 
thought.  But  still  she  was  beautiful ;  I  grew 
intoxicated  looking  at  her.  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  dream  of  her  endlessly;  I  had  never 
for  an  instant  forgotten  when,  in  the  evening 
of  July  n,  I  had  embraced  her  knees  for  the 
first  time.  Her  hands,  too,  trembled  sligutly, 
as  she  arranged  her  hair  and  spoke  and  smiled 
and  looked  at  me;  and  suddenly — you  will 

130 


Son 

understand  the  whole  catastrophic  power  of 
that  woman — suddenly  that  smile  somehow 
became  distorted,  and  she  said  with  difficulty, 
but  yet  firmly: 

"You  must  go  home,  you  must  rest  after 
your  journey — you  are  not  looking  yourself; 
your  eyes  are  so  terribly  suffering,  your  lips 
so  burning  that  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer. 
.  .  .  Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you,  to 
accompany  you?" 

And,  without  waiting  for  my  answer,  she 
got  up  and  went  to  put  on  her  hat  and 
cloak.  .  .  . 

We  drove  quickly  to  the  villa  Hashim.  I 
stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  terrace  to  pick 
some  flowers.  She  did  not  wait  for  me,  but 
opened  the  door  herself.  I  had  no  servants; 
there  was  only  a  watchman,  but  he  did  not  see 
us.  When  I  came  into  the  hall,  hot  and  dark 
with  its  drawn  blinds,  and  gave  her  the  flowers, 
she  kissed  them ;  then,  putting  one  arm  round 

131 


Son 

me,  she  kissed  me.  Her  lips  were  dry  from 
excitement,  but  her  voice  was  clear. 

"But  listen  .  .  .  how  shall  we  ...  have 
you  got  anything?"  she  asked. 

At  first  I  did  not  understand  her;  I  was  so 
overwhelmed  by  the  first  kiss,  the  first  endear- 
ment, and  I  murmured: 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  shrank  back. 

"What!"  she  said,  almost  sternly.  "Did 
you  imagine  that  I  ...  that  we  can  live  after 
this?  Have  you  anything  to  kill  ourselves 
with?" 

I  understood,  and  quickly  showed  her  my 
revolver,  loaded  with  five  cartridges,  which  I 
always  kept  on  me. 

She  walked  away  quickly  ahead  of  me  from 
one  room  to  the  other.  I  followed  her  with 
that  numbness  of  the  senses  with  which  a 
naked  man  on  a  sultry  day  walks  out  into  the 
sea;  I  heard  the  rustle  of  her  skirts.  At  last 

132 


Son 

we  were  there;  she  threw  off  her  cloak  and 
began  to  untie  the  strings  of  her  hat.  Her 
hands  were  still  trembling  and  in  the  half- 
light  I  again  noticed  something  pitiful  and 
tired  in  her  face.  .  .  . 

But  she  died  with  firmness.  At  the  last 
moment  she  was  transformed ;  she  kissed  me, 
and  moving  her  head  back  so  as  to  see  my 
face,  she  whispered  to  me  such  tender  and 
moving  words  that  I  cannot  repeat  them. 

I  wanted  to  go  out  and  pick  some  flowers  to 
strew  on  the  death-bed.  She  would  not  let  me ; 
she  was  in  a  hurry  and  said : 

"No,  no,  you  must  not .  .  .  there  are  flowers 
here  .  .  .  here  are  your  flowers,"  and  she  kept 
on  repeating:  "And  see,  I  beseech  you  by  all 
that  is  sacred  to  you,  kill  me!" 

"Yes,  and  then  I  will  kill  myself,"  I  said, 
without  for  a  moment  doubting  my  resolution. 

"Oh,  I  believe  you,  I  believe  you,"  she 
133 


Son 

answered,  already  apparently  half-uncon- 
scious. .  .  . 

A  moment  before  her  death  she  said  very 
quietly  and  simply: 

"My  God,  this  is  unspeakable!" 

And  again : 

"Where  are  the  flowers  you  gave  me?  Kiss 
me — for  the  last  time." 

She  herself  put  the  revolver  to  her  head.  I 
wanted  to  do  it,  but  she  stopped  me : 

"No,  that  is  not  right;  let  me  do  it.  Like 
this,  my  child.  .  .  .  And  afterwards  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  me  and  lay  the  flowers 
on  my  heart.  ..." 

When  I  fired,  she  made  a  slight  movement 
with  her  lips,  and  I  fired  again.  .  .  . 

She  lay  quiet;  in  her  dead  face  there  was 
a  kind  of  bitter  happiness.  Her  hair  was 
loose;  the  tortoise-shell  comb  lay  on  the  floor. 
I  staggered  to  my  feet  in  order  to  put  an  end 
to  myself.  But  the  room,  despite  the  blinds, 

134 


Son 

was  light;  in  the  light  and  stillness  which 
'suddenly  surrounded  me,  I  saw  clearly  her 
face  already  pale.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  mad- 
ness seized  me ;  I  rushed  to  the  window,  undid 
and  threw  open  the  shutters,  began  shouting 
and  firing  into  the  air.  .  .  .  The  rest  you 
know.  ..." 

[In  the  spring,  five  years  ago,  while  wander- 
ing in  Algeria,  the  writer  of  these  lines  visited 
Constantine.  .  .  .  There  often  comes  to  him  a 
memory  of  the  cold,  rainy,  and  yet  spring 
evenings  which  he  spent  by  the  fire  in  the  read- 
ing-room of  a  certain  old  and  homely  French 
hotel.  In  the  heavy,  elaborate  book-case  were 
much-read  illustrated  papers,  and  in  them  you 
could  see  the  faded  photographs  of  Madame 
Maraud.  There  were  photographs  taken  of 
her  at  different  ages,  and  among  them  the 
Lausanne  portrait  of  her  as  a  girl.  .  .  .  Her 
story  is  told  here  once  more,  from  a  desire  to 
tell  it  in  one's  own  way.] 

135 


